Marianne and the Privateer

CHAPTER SEVEN The Queen's Lover

The house, when Marianne entered it with Talleyrand, was dark and silent. An expressionless servant in staid, brown livery bearing a branch of candles preceded them up a broad, black marble staircase adorned with a handsome, gilded rail of wrought iron to the first-floor landing off which, in addition to a number of darkened salons, there opened a room like a large bookroom but so filled with furniture, pictures, books and works of art of all kinds that, if he had not come to meet them, Marianne and her companion might have had some difficulty in distinguishing the bald head and heavy, stooping figure of the Englishman, or rather Scotsman, Crawfurd.

'When I lived in this house,' the prince had observed with a rather forced lightness of tone, 'this was my library. Crawfurd has made it a shrine of a somewhat different order…'

By the dim light of a few, scattered candles, Marianne saw to her astonishment that all the pictures and other objects, or nearly all, were of the same person. In bronze, in marble and on canvas, everywhere the proud, lovely face of Queen Marie-Antoinette stared down at the newcomers. Even the furnishings had come from the Petit Trianon and nearly everything in the crowded room, fans, snuff-boxes, handkerchiefs, books, bore either the queen's arms or her monogram. On the walls, which were hung with grey silk, were many gilt frames in which the occasional note in her own handwriting alternated with portraits and miniatures.

While Talleyrand shook hands with Crawfurd in the American fashion, Quintin Crawfurd himself was watching with a melancholy smile the obvious astonishment with which Marianne's eyes took in the room. At last he said, in the gruff voice which still retained some traces of a highland accent: 'From the first day on which it was my privilege to be presented to her, I vowed to devote my life to the service of the martyred queen. I did all that I could to snatch her from the hands of her enemies and restore her to happiness. Now I honour her memory.'

Then, as Marianne was silent, awed by the strange passion which throbbed in the old man's voice, he went on: 'Your own parents died for her, and furthermore your mother was an Englishwoman. My house shall shelter you against all your foes, and any that may try to tear you from it, or to harm you in any way, shall not live to boast of it.'

He gestured towards a pair of massive pistols which lay on a table and, on a chair near by, an ancient, heavy claymore whose glittering steel blade spoke of the assiduous care which kept it ready for instant use. Yet in spite of the somewhat theatrical drama of his welcome, Marianne could not help finding Crawfurd rather impressive, and he was undeniably sincere in what he said: he was a man who would kill rather than betray his guest. Somehow, startled as she was, she managed to utter some polite words of thanks, but he cut her short at once:

'Not at all. The blood of your family and the prince's friendship make you doubly welcome here. Come, my wife is waiting to meet you.'

If the truth were known, Marianne's feelings when, as they drew near to Paris, Talleyrand had told her that he planned to ask for the Crawfurds' hospitality on her behalf, had been less than enthusiastic. Her recollection of the odd couple she had glimpsed only once, in the Prince of Benevento's box at the theatre, was strange and rather disturbing. The woman, in particular, had both intrigued and frightened her a little. She knew that before her marriages, first, morganatically, to the Duke of Würtemberg, then to the Englishman Sullivan, and then to Crawfurd, she had passed the early years of her life with the Sant'Annas and must therefore be familiar with them. But more than this, she had been conscious of Eleonora Crawfurd's dark gaze resting on her for a long time across the width of the house that night. There was admiration in the look, certainly, and a good deal of curiosity, but there was also something else, a kind of detached irony which did not suggest very friendly feelings. On the strength of this look, she had felt a peculiar reluctance when Talleyrand's coach had turned into the rue d'Anjou-St-Honoré on that evening of the fourteenth of August and drawn up at the door of what had formerly been the Hôtel de Créqui. It was a pretty, eighteenth-century house which, two years earlier, had been the home of Talleyrand himself, while the wealthy Crawfurd had lived, since 1806, in the Hôtel Matignon. The exchange had been made partly as a matter of private convenience, for Matignon was far too big for Crawfurd's household, and partly in obedience to the Emperor's desire to see his Minister for Foreign Affairs installed in a suitably grand establishment, to which, be it said, the minister in question had been by no means averse.

But Talleyrand had retained a certain affection for his old home in the rue d'Anjou and he would not have understood if Marianne had expressed any unwillingness to stay there in the care of people whom he counted among his oldest and most trusted friends. He maintained that Eleonora, who had been his mistress before becoming attached to the unfortunate Count Fersen, was the quintessence of all that was most charming in the previous century, a period which, for him, represented an achievement in the art of living which was now gone for ever. And this despite the fact that she had begun her career as an opera dancer – but then Talleyrand had always had a weakness for dancers.

Meekly, forcing herself to think of nothing but the bed which she was offered and which she longed for with all her heart, Marianne followed her host into a nearby sitting-room where Mrs Crawford was seated, a branch of tall pink candles at her side, working at a piece of tapestry. In her dress of black watered silk, its folds catching the light, with a white muslin cap and a scarf of the same material crossed in the old fashion over a breast that was still lovely, and her silver hair dressed high with one or two long, flowing curls stressing the line of her neck, the mistress of the house bore such a startling resemblance to the portrait of the late queen in the Temple that Marianne paused in the doorway and stared at the apparition as if she had found herself suddenly looking at a ghost.

But the resemblance stopped short at the first impression. The black eyes which looked up, sharp and inquisitive, at the visitor and the red, rather hard curve of the mouth, did not belong to Marie-Antoinette, any more than the figure, which was much shorter and slimmer, or the hands, which were seen to be thin and bony, in spite of the black lace mittens and the splendid diamonds which adorned them.

'So this is our fugitive,' Eleonora Crawfurd said, getting up and coming forward to meet them. 'I am very happy to welcome you, my dear, and I hope you will look on this house as your own. You may come and go as you please in it, for although we have few servants, those few are all people we can trust.'

The voice was a splendid contralto, very deep and warm, retaining some musical echoes of its native Tuscany, and extremely attractive. Eleonora knew how to use it, too, like a real artist.

'You are very kind, Madame,' Marianne said, wondering vaguely if she ought to bow and compromising with a smile and a little bob of her head. In her boy's clothes, a curtsy would have been ridiculous and she did not place much confidence in her ability to make a leg with credit. 'I am only sorry to impose upon you in this way, and perhaps put you at some risk—'

'Tut! Who talks of risks in this house? Quintin and I have run risks all our lives and this, supposing it to be one, is very small by comparison. Besides, I trust your troubles will not be of long duration and that you will soon be able to return to your own house. You were only to spend the summer months – er – taking the waters, were you not? You will be home again in the autumn. Until then, you must feel quite at home here, and to start with, you and our dear prince must take a little supper. You must be in need of it. Afterwards, I will show you your room.'

Supper, at that late hour, was brought to the sitting-room and consisted of some magnificent peaches and some light creams and pastries, as well as a superb Brie of which Talleyrand was known to be particularly fond, washed down with an unusually fine old burgundy.

Conversation soon languished, however, owing to the manifest weariness of the guests. It revived only slightly when Crawfurd remarked, as though announcing a fact of no great importance: 'It appears that Champagny has sent a note to ambassador Armstrong.'

Talleyrand raised one eyebrow, while Marianne roused abruptly from her sleepy doze at the mere mention of the American diplomat's name.

'A note eh?' the prince said. 'And what does it say?'

'How should I know? All I can tell you is that there was a note from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs – and that the ambassador's expression has been a trifle less harassed ever since the – the fifth of August, I think it was, when the note arrived.'

'Less harassed? What do you think, Crawfurd? Does it mean the Emperor has decided to treat the Beaufort business leniently? It would be quite easy, of course, simply to let him go…'

'Don't you believe it. The matter is past hushing up now. The seaman, Perez, who, quite between ourselves, seems singularly well-informed as regards political affairs for an ignorant seaman, declares that Beaufort intended to put in at Portsmouth to unload some of his cargo of champagne and is demanding a third of the value as a reward for his evidence, by virtue of the Milan decree. Which reminds me, it's a curious thing how, although the affair was to be kept a deadly secret, every interested department seems to have got wind of it. I wonder what the Emperor thinks…'

'That,' Talleyrand said energetically, rising to his feet and striking the table with the flat of his hand, 'is what we have to find out. The whole business seems to have got thoroughly out of hand, and we are hearing a great deal too much about this seaman, Perez. Don't be alarmed, Marianne,' he added, seeing her pale face and widening eyes suddenly bright with tears, 'I will try to see the Emperor, and if I fail there I will write to him. It is time a few honest voices made themselves heard. But go and get some sleep now, my child. You can scarcely keep your eyes open. Your hostess will take good care of you and I will tell your friends where you are first thing in the morning.'

This was true. Marianne was wholly exhausted. While the Prince of Benevento sought his coach for the remainder of his journey to the Hôtel Matignon, she suffered herself to be led meekly away by Eleonora Crawfurd to a pretty bedchamber hung with rose-coloured chintz on the second floor of the house. The room had two windows which looked out on to a quiet garden not unlike Marianne's own.

Mrs Crawfurd turned down the bed with deft hands and then turned to light the lamp under a tisanière which stood on the table by the bed.

'A little camomile will do you good,' she said. 'It is a sovereign remedy for the nerves. Shall I help you to undress?'

Marianne shook her head with a tired smile of thanks. She was impatient, now, to be left alone but her hostess seemed in no hurry to depart. She was walking about the room, altering the position of a flower in a vase, checking that the curtains ran smoothly in their rings, shifting a chair slightly, as if she were trying to prolong their tête à'tête indefinitely. Marianne, her nerves on edge, was on the point of committing the ultimate rudeness of asking point-blank to be left alone when Mrs Crawfurd turned suddenly and regarded her guest with an expression half perplexed and half compassionate.

'You poor, poor child,' she said in a tone whose sympathy did not, to Marianne's ears, ring altogether true. 'I had so hoped that you, at least, might have found happiness!'

'Why me at least?'

'Because you are so sweet and fresh and lovely, so – oh, I swear to God that when I heard of your marriage I prayed, I prayed with all my heart that the curse which seems to haunt the princesses of Sant'Anna might spare you!'

Th-the curse?' Marianne gasped with difficulty, for even in her present state of anxiety the idea of a curse seemed to be going rather too far. 'What curse? If you mean Donna Lucinda—'

'Oh, your unfortunate husband's grandmother was no more than – than an instance of the dreadful state of affairs which goes back to the fourteenth century. Ever since a Sant'Anna brutally murdered his wife in revenge for adultery all the women of the family – or nearly all, have died violent deaths. It takes courage, or a great love, to marry any of that illustrious name – but you did not know this?'

'No. I did not know,' Marianne said, wide awake now and wondering very much what her hostess could be at. It seemed to her extremely odd that the Cardinal de Chazay should have kept such a tragic legend as this from her, unless, with his fanatical hatred of all superstition, he had simply dismissed it as a horrible, childish tale.

Deciding that this last theory was probably correct, Marianne added: 'But it would have made no difference had I known. I believe in ghosts – but not in curses which attach themselves to innocent people. Besides,' she went on, ruthlessly editing the truth, 'I did not even meet a ghost at the Villa dei Cavalli!' This whole conversation, coming out of the blue at a time when all she wanted was to go to sleep, struck her as fantastic, and that seemed as good a way as any of putting an end to it. But Mrs Crawfurd was not a woman to be easily put off, although it was not easy to see what her object might be in introducing the subject of the Sant'Annas.

'No ghosts?' she said now, with a sceptical smile. 'I am surprised! Even if it were only—'

'Only who?'

'Oh, no one,' Eleonora said suddenly. She came to Marianne and kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'We will talk about all this another time. For the moment, you are asleep on your feet.'

'No, no!' Marianne protested, quite sincerely now, for she was dying to hear more. 'I can sleep later. Tell me—'

'Nothing at all, child. It is a long story and – well, I too am sleepy. It would be a mistake to begin. But don't tell me that you did not know that when your husband, Prince Corrado, was born his father, Don Ugolino, killed his mother…'

With that, Eleonora left the room, as softly as one of the ghosts in which she, too, appeared to believe and closed the door behind her, leaving Marianne wide awake and thoroughly confused. She understood this woman less and less. Why had she introduced the subject if she did not wish to explain fully? If it had been to distract Marianne's thoughts from their constant, agonized preoccupation with Jason's fate, she had only partly succeeded because there was no story, however exciting, which could have distracted her from her fears for the man she loved. But if she had meant to give her a sense of uneasiness and insecurity, then she had achieved her object to perfection. How could she help thinking that this curse which had attached itself to the women of her name might extend to those she loved? And what connection was there between the murder of Corrado's mother, Donna Adriana, and the prince's own tragic destiny?

Unable to sleep, she lay turning the problem over and over in her overexcited brain, looking at it from every direction yet without reaching any satisfactory conclusion. The murder seemed to give substance to the theory that Corrado was a monster, yet when she recalled the lithe, powerful figure of the nocturnal horseman the idea became unthinkable. Then was it the face, perhaps, which was repulsive? But a man did not kill his wife on account of a face, however hideous. He might kill in anger – or brutality – or for jealousy. Suppose the child Corrado had borne some striking likeness to another man? But Marianne did not on the whole place much faith in striking resemblances applied to new-born babies. With the exercise of a little imagination, a baby could be made to look like almost anybody. And besides, in that case, why the sequestered existence, why the mask? To preserve for ever from the least breath of scandal the memory of a mother whom the prince had never known and whose memory he could therefore hardly be expected to cherish? No, it was quite impossible…

When it began to get light, at about four o'clock, Marianne, seated in a chair by the open window, had still not closed her eyes, nor had she found any answer to her questions. Her head ached and she was deadly tired. Dragging herself up, she leaned out. All was very quiet. Only the first birds were beginning to sing and tiny forms flitted from branch to branch, without stirring a leaf. The sky was pink and orange with streaks of coral and gold which told that the sun would soon be up. Out in the street, the metal-shod wheels of a cart clanked over the cobblestones and a charcoal-vendor's cry echoed nostalgically. Then, from across the Seine, came the sound of a cannon being fired and at that precise moment up came the sun into a sky filled with belfries chiming the first notes of the Angelus.

This glorious din, which was to last all morning, announced to the good people of Paris that on that day their Emperor was forty-one years old and that today was a holiday and everyone should behave accordingly.

But there was no holiday for Marianne and so as to be sure of hearing nothing of the general celebrations which would gradually take possession of the capital, she carefully closed and shuttered the windows, drew the curtains and, utterly exhausted, flung herself at last fully dressed on her bed and fell instantly asleep.

Marianne's meeting with Arcadius on the evening of the fifteenth of August, while all over Paris people were drinking in the streets and squares and dancing under the street lamps to Napoleon's good health, was almost tragic. His face drawn from the fatigue of several sleepless nights spent haunting every locality where he hoped to find some trace of Lord Cranmere, Jolival reproached Marianne with a good deal of bitterness for what he called her lack of confidence in him:

'Why did you have to come back? What do you hope to do? Bury yourself in this house along with an old fool surrounded by memories of his dead queen and that scheming old woman, still mourning for her murdered lover and her own vanished youth? What are you afraid of? That I won't do all that is humanly possible? Well, don't worry. I am doing it. I'm searching – desperately. I'm searching for news of Mrs Atkins. I spend my nights roaming about Chaillot and the Boulevard du Temple, haunting the Homme Armé and the Epi-Scié. I spend hours in disguise, in the hope of catching a glimpse of one of Fanchon's men, or of Fanchon herself. But I am wasting my time… Do you think I need anything more to worry about – such as knowing that you are here, in hiding, at the mercy of anyone who might denounce you?'

Marianne waited until the storm had blown over. She understood her friend's weariness and discouragement too well to blame him for his outburst, which was prompted purely by his affection for her. To placate him, she was meek, almost humble.

'Please don't be cross with me, Arcadius. I could not stay there, living quietly in the country, while you were working yourself to death here, and while Jason was – was—'

'In prison,' Jolival finished for her tartly. 'A political prisoner. It's not the hulks, you know! And I know he is being treated well.'

'I know. I know all that… or I suppose so, but I was going mad! And when the prince told me he had to come back to Paris, I couldn't stand it. I begged him to take me with him.'

'He should not have done so. But women can always get round him. Well, what are you going to do now? Spend your days listening to Crawfurd extolling the virtues of Marie-Antoinette, telling you in detail all about the Affair of the Necklace or the horrors of the Temple and the Conciergerie? Unless you prefer to hear his wife's life story?'

'I shall certainly listen to anything that she may be able to tell me, because she was born at Lucca and seems to know the history of the Sant'Annas better than anyone; but my real reason for coming back, Arcadius dear, is so that I shall be able to hear any news there is as soon as it is known, and be able to decide what to do… Monsieur de Talleyrand says that things are going very badly and he will tell you—'

'I know. I have just seen him. He told me he was going to seek an audience with the Emperor to try and throw some light on this dreadful business. But I am afraid he won't find it easy to get a hearing. His position is not very encouraging just at present.'

'Why not? He is no longer a minister but he is still Vice-Grand Elector?'

'A grandiose title which is quite meaningless in practical terms. No, what I meant was that Napoleon has heard rumours of his financial troubles and, what is worse, of the reason for them. Our prince was involved to some extent in the Anglo-French negotiations got up by Fouché, Ouvrard, Labouchère and Wellesley. Then there was the failure of Simons Bank – Simons's wife, who used to be a Demoiselle Lange, is an old friend of his – he lost a million and a half there. Above all, there is the four million he was paid by the city of Hamburg to save it from annexation. If Napoleon carries out his intention and annexes it just the same, then Talleyrand will have to pay back the money. At that rate, I don't see him being in high favour at court…'

'Then it's all the more noble of him to try. Besides, if he needs money, I can give it to him.'

'Do you think you have that much? I did not mean to speak of it because I did not want to add to your worries, but this letter came from Lucca five days ago. It came without the quarter's allowance which should normally have been due. You'll forgive me for having read it.'

Foreseeing fresh trouble, Marianne took the letter somewhat reluctantly. She was blaming herself for not having written to the prince herself to tell him of the accident which had resulted in her losing the child. She was afraid of her invisible husband's reaction yet without being very certain what that reaction might be. Something told her now that that was precisely what this letter contained.

In fact, in a brief missive of chilling politeness, Prince Corrado informed Marianne that he had heard of the loss of their mutual hopes, made perfunctory inquiries as to her own health and added that he was in expectation of a visit to Italy on her part in the near future 'so that we may consider the new situation created by this unfortunate occurrence and what steps should be taken…'

'A lawyer's letter!' Marianne exploded, screwing the paper into a ball and hurling it into a corner. 'Consider the situation? Take steps? What does he want to do? Divorce me? I am perfectly willing!'

'Italians do not believe in divorce, Marianne,' Arcadius said sternly, 'and least of all a Sant'Anna! Besides, I should have thought you had had enough of changing husbands every five minutes. Now stop this stupid behaviour!'

'What do you want me to do? Go off there while—No! A hundred times no! Not at any price!'

The explosion of anger which shook her was in reality a cover for her tumultuous thoughts, but for the moment she hated him with all her might, this distant stranger whom she had married in the belief that, in spite of all, she would still keep complete freedom of action, yet who now dared, even from a distance, to dictate to her as lord and master and make her feel the curb. Go back to Lucca! To that house full of hidden dangers where a madman worshipped a statue and offered up human sacrifices to it, where another rode out only at night, wearing a mask? Not now, at all events. If she were to do what she had to do here, Marianne had to be free – free! On the other hand, this act of cutting off her supplies was ominous and more than a little awkward. This was not the moment for anything like that, either, when she might need to bribe people, buy men and weapons… an army, even, to snatch Jason from the unjust condemnation ahead of him. Moreover this letter, the first she had received from Prince Sant'Anna, represented another source of danger. What if it had been opened, by any chance, by the Emperor's Cabinet Noir? A knowledge of its contents might easily give him the idea of removing Marianne definitively from the Beaufort affair by sending her back to her own distant estates. What could she do about it… Then something else about the letter struck her as alarming. What were these 'steps' the prince considered taking? Did he think he could compel her to return to Napoleon so that, at all costs, he might have the child he wanted? Logically, that was the only solution, since the prince could not divorce her. If he had any idea of attending to the matter himself, he would surely have done so long ago? Then what? Why this letter, this thinly disguised command to return to Lucca? What for?

A fearful thought occurred to Marianne. Perhaps Prince Corrado meant to subject her to the fate which, according to Eleonora Crawfurd, was common to all Princesses of Sant'Anna? A violent death that would revenge him for what he might, not unreasonably, consider a fool's bargain. Was he summoning her to execution – in the tradition of his family?

Putting her thoughts into words, she said tonelessly: 'I don't want to go back there… because I am afraid of them all.'

'No one is asking you to. Not at present, at least. I have already written to say that your health is still delicate after your recent accident and that you have retired, at the Emperor's command, to Bourbon, where the waters are beneficial not merely for rheumatic complaints, but also for female disorders. We can only hope, now that you have seen fit to come back, that no one will be sent to make sure that is where you are. But that is beside the point. I merely wished to make it plain to you that you have no money to throw about rashly and that while you are very far from beggary, you must begin to be a little careful and not spend what you have thoughtlessly. That being done, my dear, I will say good-bye to you.'

'Good-bye?' Marianne cried in alarm. 'You are not – not leaving me?'

It could not be true? Her dear old Arcadius could not be so angry with her as to leave her? Surely he could not blame her so much? Her face went so white that Jolival, seeing the tears that gathered in her big green eyes, could not help smiling. Bending, he took her hand gently in his and dropped an affectionate kiss upon it:

'Where is your common sense, Marianne? I am leaving you – but for a few days only, and on your own business. It has occurred to me that, if he will put himself to so much trouble, Citizen Fouché might do a good deal towards clearing the minds of his former colleagues at the Quai Malaquais, always supposing that the Emperor is willing to let him. I dare not trust a letter to the post, so I am going myself.'

'Going where?'

'To Aix-en-Provence where our friend the Duke of Otranto is wearing out his exile. And I am not without hopes, because quite apart from any kindness he has for you he will be delighted to put a rub in Savary's way. So be a good girl and wait for me nicely – and above all, don't do anything foolish!'

'Foolish? Here? I don't see anything I could do.'

'That depends,' Arcadius said and grinned. 'You might try forcing your way in to see the Emperor, for example.'

Marianne shook her head, saying seriously, as she slipped her arm through his to go with him to the door: 'No, that is one piece of folly I can promise you I will not commit – or not just at present. And in return for that, you must promise me to be quick—very quick! I will be very brave, and very patient, because I know you will bring back the evidence we need. I will be good and wait.'

But waiting was harder than even Marianne had foreseen. Almost before Jolival had left Paris, while the sky was still alight with the many-coloured showers of sparks from innumerable firework displays, the old, stealthy fears returned, insidiously, to take possession of her mind, as if only her friend's presence had the power to exorcize the demons and dispel the evil miasma. It grew worse as time went on.

Shut up in the Crawfurds' house with no other distractions than the detailed inspection of her host's collection of paintings, which was certainly very fine, and walks in the garden where she paced up and down wretchedly for hours on end like a prisoner, Marianne found her hopes melting away, little by little, dissolving like smoke in the chill wind of bad news.

First, she learned that the Emperor had refused to see the Vice-Grand Elector, as indeed it had been feared, and that there was nothing to be done but await the outcome of the very diplomatic letter which had followed the rejection of this request. Next, it became known that Jason Beaufort's trial would open on the first of October before the Assize Court in Paris, and the fact that a date should already have been fixed looked ominous indeed.

'Apparently,' the Prince of Benevento observed, 'the judges are anxious to get the matter out of the way before the new Penal Code which was passed on the twelfth of February this year comes into force next January.'

'What you mean is that the trial will be hurried through and Jason is condemned already?'

Talleyrand shrugged. 'Perhaps not… but, as the English would say, their lordships are certainly a great deal more at home with the old Code. It is always troublesome accustoming oneself to new procedures.'

In these circumstances, it was understandable that Marianne should have begun to sink under the burden of her own gloomy thoughts, especially when the only relief from these thoughts was the conversation of two elderly persons living exclusively in the past. For them, in fact, as Jolival had foreseen, she had become the ideal listener, since her own life was as fraught with drama as theirs had been.

However, if she felt little interest in the doings of Marie-Antoinette, except in so far as they were concerned with that terrible period in which her own father and mother had met their deaths for the queen, Marianne was very willing to listen to Eleonora's tales, which dealt exclusively with Lucca and the strange family into which her own fate had introduced her.

Oddly for a woman whose Italian blood had gifted her with a highly talkative nature, Eleonora maintained a total silence on the subject of her own private life, and especially about the one man who, more than any other, had been the great love of her life, that Count Fersen in whom so many women besides the queen had seen the living image of their dreams. The only sign of emotion which Mrs Crawfurd permitted herself was a small frown and a slight tightening of the muscles round her mouth when her husband, in the course of one of his interminable monologues, evoked the elegant figure of the Swedish count who had died so tragically two months earlier. But on the subject of the Sant'Annas, Eleonora waxed tirelessly eloquent, and so vivid were her powers of description that Marianne, sitting curled up for hours at a time in a deep armchair beside the tapestry frame over which the older woman's hands had fallen still, seemed to see the people of whom she talked conjured up, one by one, by her voice in the shadowy room.

In this way, Marianne learned that Eleonora had been born actually on the Sant'Anna estates. Her father had been the prince's head groom and her mother the princess's personal maid, an office she shared with the mother of Donna Lavinia, the present housekeeper, who was some years older than herself and with whom Marianne was already well acquainted. It was not difficult for her now to recall the sweet, lovely face, with the grey hair and the deep sadness of expression which seemed to carry in it all the latent melancholy of the domain. It did not seem that Lavinia had altered over the years: she had always been quiet, reserved and inclined to melancholy.

Eleonora and Lavinia had, naturally, been childhood friends. It was otherwise with the man whom Marianne had known as the agent, Matteo Damiani, the unnerving worshipper of statues who had tried to kill her once, one dreadful night when she had discovered his secret. Eleonora had been ten when Matteo was born but, maturing young like all southern girls, she had known immediately that the perilous Sant'Anna blood ran in the veins of the new-born baby brought to the villa one winter's night in the folds of her mother's cloak.

'He was the son of your husband's grandfather, Prince Sebastiano, and a poor girl from Bagni di Lucca called Fiorella who no sooner brought the child into the world than she drowned herself in the Serchio. Fiorella was pretty but slightly simple, yet she had seemed happy enough and no one could think what had made her do it – unless it was not entirely her own doing…'

'You mean – someone pushed her?'

Mrs Crawfurd made a vague gesture. 'Who can say? Don Sebastiano was a terrible man – and I imagine you must have heard something of his wife, the notorious Lucinda, the Venetian, the witch whose malignant shade still hangs over the house…'

The quiet voice had changed suddenly and become filled with such horror and revulsion that for a moment Marianne seemed to see the credulous and superstitious peasant girl she had once been. But she herself could not repress a shudder as she recalled the temple and the sensuous figure which reigned over the ruins. Instinctively dropping her voice, she asked with an eager curiosity not unmixed with fear: 'You know her – Lucinda?'

Mrs Crawfurd nodded and closed her eyes briefly, as if the better to remember.

'In fact, she is the only other Princess Sant'Anna I have known. As for forgetting her – I think if I were to live out many lives I could still not wipe her from my memory. You can have no idea what she was like. I myself have never seen such beauty as hers – so strange and yet so perfect – so demoniacally perfect! God knows you are beautiful, my dear, but next to her you would have ceased to exist. When she was there, one saw only her. Venus herself would have looked like a peasant girl beside such splendour.'

'Did you like her?' Marianne breathed, too eaten up with the desire to know to feel the slightest pique at the slighting way in which Eleonora had spoken of her own appearance. The answer came like a cannon shot:

'I hated her! God, how I hated her! And even after so many years I think I hate her still. It was because of her that when I was fifteen I fled from my parents' home with a Neapolitan dancer who, with his company, was performing at the villa. But when I was a little girl, I used to hide behind the bushes in the park to watch her pass by, dressed always in dazzling white, always covered in pearls or diamonds and always followed by her slave, Hassan, carrying her scarf, her parasol or the bag with the bread she used to feed the white peacocks in the park…'

'She had a slave?'

'Yes, a gigantic Guinean Don Sebastiano had brought back from Accra on the Slave Coast. Lucinda made him her bodyguard, her dog and, I learned afterwards, her executioner.'

At this point, Mrs Crawford's voice seemed to flicker, like a lamp in need of oil. She felt in the reticule of black silk which hung always by her chair and, taking a pastille from a silver comfit box, sat sucking it with eyes half-closed while Marianne held her breath for fear of disturbing her contemplation. In a moment or two, the older woman resumed more strongly:

'In those days, I did think that I loved her. She dazzled me. But afterwards—'

'What was she like?' The question had been hovering on Marianne's lips for several minutes. 'I have only seen her statue—'

'Ah, that famous statue! Does it still exist? Well, it was certainly very like her as to face and form, but the colours, the subtle shades of life, it gave no idea of those… If I told you that Lucinda had red hair, I should be giving you a wrong idea. Her hair was like a flame, like liquid gold, her great eyes were black velvet and glowing coals and her skin ivory and rose petals. Her mouth was like an open wound filled with pearls. No, there was never anyone like her. Nor was there anyone so cruel and depraved. Anything, human or animal, that crossed her was in danger. I have seen her slaughter the finest mare in the stables in cold blood, merely because she fell from her saddle, I have seen her order Hassan to beat an ironing maid until she bled, merely for scorching one of her laces. My mother never went near her without fingering her beads in her apron pocket. Even her husband, Prince Sebastiano, was forced to fly from her to find rest and peace of mind, and he was thirty years older than she and had loved her and still loved her passionately. That was why he used to spend three parts of the year on his travels, far away from Lucca.'

'And yet,' Marianne said, 'there was one child, at least?'

'Yes, and she was prepared for that because she accepted that there must be an heir. But when she found herself with child, her temper grew so ungovernable that her husband went away again, leaving her sole mistress of the estates. And for seven months no one set eyes on her.'

'No one? But – why?'

'Because she could not bear to let anyone see her in less than her usual beauty. All those months she spent shut up in her own apartments, never going out, never letting anyone in except my mother, Anna Franchi, and Maria, Lavinia's mother, who were her waiting women. And she scarcely spoke even to them. I can still remember hearing my mother tell my father, in a whisper, that when darkness came Donna Lucinda ordered all the candles to be lit and made sure all the doors and windows were fast shut, and no one knew what was the reason for this nocturnal illumination, which lasted until the candles guttered out.

'One night, my curiosity got the better of me. I was ten years old and as quick and agile as a cat. I got out of my bedroom window when my parents were asleep and ran in my bare feet all the way to the house. The climbing plants on the walls made it easy for me to climb up to Donna Lucinda's balcony. My heart was thumping in my chest, for I was convinced that if I were caught my father and mother would never see me again alive. But I wanted to find out – and I did.'

'What was she doing?'

'Nothing. I peeped through a crack in the curtains and I saw her. She had the candlesticks placed in a circle on the floor and she was standing in the centre, facing the statue you have seen and stark naked also. The two figures must have been reflected over and over again to infinity in the mirrors, the white and the flesh pink, and Lucinda stood there for hours, comparing herself with her own marble image, searching for the slightest alterations and deformities brought about by her condition, with her hair all tumbled and the tears streaming down her cheeks… Believe me, there was something so hauntingly dreadful in the sight that I never went there again. Besides, when it came to the final weeks there was no more light of any kind. By her orders the mirrors were all veiled and the princess's rooms remained in darkness, day and night.'

Marianne, wide-eyed, had listened breathlessly to her hostess's strange tale.

'She must have been mad, surely?' she said at last.

'Mad, yes, about herself, without a doubt. But apart from that, apart from her insensate worship of her own beauty, she behaved more or less normally. The birth of her son, Ugolino, was the occasion for endless celebration. The servants and the local peasants were almost swimming in gold and wine. Donna Lucinda was quite obviously radiant – as much on account of recovering her old beauty as of having gained an heir! For a little while, we all thought that a new era of happiness had begun for the house. But then – three months later, Prince Sebastiano set out again for some distant land and met his death there. The building of the little temple was begun almost immediately after he went away. It was a little more than a year after Matteo Damiani had been brought to the villa.'

'Donna Lucinda did not mind his presence?'

'No, she simply tolerated it. But then, when her own child was born, she began to neglect it almost entirely and showed a curious preference for the little love-child. She would play with him like a puppy, she took an interest in the way he was treated, how he was dressed, but most of all, she seemed to take a kind of perverted pleasure in bringing out all the most savage instincts in the child. She would alternately tease him and caress him, always encouraging him to be cruel and bloodthirsty. Not that that was very difficult. The foundations were already there. By the time he was five years old, when I left the villa, Matteo was already a little devil, I can tell you, a mixture of brutality and cunning. And from what I have been able to discover since, his character has only grown in those respects. Now, if you please, child, be so good as to ring for tea. I am as dry as a bone and if you want me to talk any more…'

'Oh please. You told me just now that Donna Luanda was the cause of your going away—'

'It is not a story I care to recall, but you stand now in her place. You have a right to know. But – tea first, if you please.'

In a few moments a tray of china tea had been brought in by a soft-footed servant and the two women drank it in pleasurable silence. To Marianne, the fragrant brew, drunk in that comfortable, elegantly appointed sitting-room, brought with it a faint scent of time past. She saw herself as a little girl, and then as a young woman, seated on a stool by her Aunt Ellis's chair sharing in the daily ritual which Lady Selton would not have neglected for anything in the world. Now the old woman in her old-fashioned cap, the furnishings from a previous age, even the scent of roses floating in through the open window, all reminded Marianne of the happy days of her childhood and for the first time for very many days she was conscious of a sense of relaxation and well-being such as she used to feel when, at the height of some childish outburst of grief or rage, her Aunt Ellis had come and stroked her hair and said in her gruff voice: 'Come now, Marianne! You should know that there is nothing in this world that cannot be got over with courage and perseverance… oneself most of all.'

It had always worked wonders and it was both strange and comforting to find the same feeling now in a cup of tea in a strange house. Marianne replaced her flowered teacup on the silver tray and found that Mrs Crawfurd was watching her.

'Why do you smile, my dear? I fear the things I have been telling you were sad enough.'

'It was not that, Madame. It was just that, drinking tea like this, with you, I felt as if I were back again as a child in England. But go on, if you please.'

For a moment, the old woman's eyes lingered on her face and Marianne thought that she read in them a softness and sympathy which she had not seen before. But Eleonora Crawfurd said nothing and, turning her head to look out of the window, offered Marianne only the view of a profile half-hidden by the frill of her muslin cap. She resumed her story after a moment but in a voice so low that Marianne was scarcely able to catch the opening words:

'It is strange how the memory of one's first love can remain alive – and painful, in spite of all the years that have passed. It is something you will learn when you are old. When I think of Pietro, I feel as if it were yesterday I was running to meet him by the chapel of San Cristoforo, running through the purple twilight full of the smell of new-mown hay… I was fifteen and I loved him. He was seventeen. He was strong and handsome, and he lived in the village of Capanori, alone since the death of his father, who was a tinsmith… He wanted to marry me and we used to meet every night… until one night he did not come. One night… two nights… and no one in the village could tell me where he had gone, but all of a sudden I was afraid, although I did not know why – perhaps because he had never had any secrets from me. On the third night I could not sleep. I went out and wandered about the park, just for something to do. It was as hot as an oven, that night. Even the water in the fountains was warm and in the stables the horses were not even stirring… It was then, as I passed by the grotto, that I heard singing – if it could be called singing. It was more like a monotonous wailing, in time to a soft, rhythmic beating on a drum, with now and then a kind of cry. I had never heard anything like it before, but to have dared to walk so close to the house, and especially to the grotto, which was out of bounds to servants, I must have been in an unusual state of mind. Even now, I do not know what instinct made me follow the forbidden path to the clearing with the little temple. But go I did, feeling my way, stealthily, holding on to the rock and flattening myself against it as if I meant to make myself part of it. When the light from the temple fell on my face I drew back, instinctively, then, very carefully, I put my head out again – and then I saw!'

Silence fell once again. Marianne sat rigid, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of breaking the spell through which Eleonora's voice had seemed to come. She recalled too well her own terror when she had discovered the ruins, and Matteo Damiani there, embracing the statue. But she guessed that the ordeal which this woman had endured had been far worse than her own and her voice was very gentle as she breathed: 'You saw…'

'Hassan first of all. He was the singer. He was crouched on the marble steps with a sort of small drum, like a gourd, between his knees and he was drumming on it with his big black hands to accompany his chanting. He was gazing up at the stars as though lost in some mindless dream, but the torches burning inside the temple made his black skin gleam like bronze and glistened on the gilded loincloth and barbaric jewels he was wearing. His back was to the temple and I could see through the pillars to a great, gilded bed, all hung with black velvet. And on that bed two people were making love… The woman was Lucinda… and the man was Pietro – my Pietro. I still wonder why I did not drop dead where I stood, how I found the strength to escape. But I do know that was the last time I saw Pietro alive. The next day, they found his body hanging from a tree on the hillside. And three days later, I left with the players.'

This time, it was a long moment before Marianne uttered a word. She knew the place so well, the place whose name she bore, that she almost felt, listening to this terrible story, that she had experienced it herself, or at least been there to see. It did not surprise her when she saw the other woman brush away a tear, furtively, with the tip of one finger. Only when she thought that her companion was a little recovered, did she busy herself again with the tea-tray, and as she handed Eleonora her cup, asked: 'You never went back?'

'Yes, once, in 1784, when my mother was dying. She had never left the estate, but she had long ago forgiven me for my flight. I think, at heart, she was glad that I had got away from that dreadful house, where she had seen so much that was tragic. It was she who brought up Prince Ugolino, and she was there at the time of the fire which burned down the temple and in which Lucinda met her own, terrible, though self-inflicted, end. Yet she had hoped, then, that the future would be better once the familiar demon of the house had gone. And for a time, it seemed as if she were right. A year after Lucinda's death, her son Ugolino married a charming girl, Adriana Malaspina. He was nineteen and she sixteen and it was a long time since anyone in those parts had seen a more perfectly matched pair, or one more in love. For the sake of Adriana, whom he adored, Ugolino mastered his naturally violent and difficult nature. As ill luck would have it, he took very much after his mother but, wolf though he was, he made himself a lamb for his young bride. It seemed to my mother that the evil days were indeed gone for ever…

'When, after a little more than a year of marriage, Adriana found herself with child, Ugolino surrounded her with all imaginable attentions, guarding her day and night, even going so far as to have the horses' hooves muffled in case they should disturb her rest. Then the child was born – and the evil returned. When my mother was dying, she wanted to unburden her heart a little and, before sending for the priest, before she received the last sacrament, she told me of the twofold tragedy of that spring of 1782.'

'A twofold tragedy?'

'Yes. Only two women were with Donna Adriana when Prince Corrado was born: my mother and Lavinia. But,' she added, seeing the sudden light in Marianne's eyes, 'do not imagine that my mother revealed to me the secret of his birth. That secret was not hers to tell and she had sworn on the cross never to reveal it, not even under the seal of confession. What she did tell me was that, on the night after the birth, Ugolino strangled his wife. He could not touch the child, however, for Lavinia, fearing for its life, had carried it away and hidden it. Two days after this, Don Ugolino was found lying in one of the stalls in the stables with his skull smashed in. His death was naturally accounted an accident but, in fact, it was murder.'

'Who killed him?'

'Matteo. Ever since her marriage to Ugolino, Matteo had been passionately in love with Adriana. He lived for her and he killed his master to avenge the woman he loved. From that day onwards, he cared for the child with jealous fondness, he and Lavinia.'

The thought crossed Marianne's mind that perhaps, in spite of what Eleonora had said about her love for her husband, Donna Adriana might have returned Matteo's passion? What if the child were his and it was this resemblance which had unleashed her husband's fury? But then, if that were so, why had he not killed Matteo first?

She had no time to ask her final question. The door of the room opened to admit Quintin Crawfurd. Talleyrand was with him and at once the tragic shades of Sant'Anna fell back before the cares of the present. It was true that the Scotsman's appearance, supported on two sticks with his gouty foot swathed in a mountain of bandages, was funny rather than anything else, but the Prince of Benevento's grim expression was enough to dispel any tendency to laughter. It seemed that once again the news was bad.

With a bow to the two women, Talleyrand silently held out an open letter on which, ominously, the scrawled signature of Napoleon was clearly to be seen. Marianne took it.

'Sir,' the Emperor had written, 'I have received your letter which I read with some displeasure. While you were my Foreign Minister I was prepared to overlook many things. It grieves me, therefore, that you should raise matters which it has been my wish to forget.'

The letter was dated from St Cloud, 29 August 1810. Marianne returned it to Talleyrand without a word.

'You see,' he said bitterly, refolding the sheet. 'I am in such bad odour at court that I am now suspected of attempting to defend one of my foreign friends! I am deeply distressed, Marianne, most deeply and sincerely distressed.'

'He wants to forget!' Marianne said through clenched teeth. 'I dare say he would like to forget me also! But he shall not get away with it so easily. I will not let him destroy Jason. I will see him, whether he likes it or not, I'll force my way in, even if they do put me in prison afterwards! But I swear by my mother's honour that the Emperor will hear me! And before very long—'

She was already half out of the room when Talleyrand stopped her. 'No, Marianne. Not now, at this moment. If I am any judge of the Emperor's mind, you would be as good as condemning Beaufort on the spot!'

'Would you rather I waited – sat here calmly drinking tea, until they kill him?'

'I would rather you waited at least until he has been tried. It will be time enough to act after the verdict. Believe me. You know that I desire our friend's release as much as you. Be calm, then, and wait, I beg you.'

'And what of him? Have you thought what he may be thinking in his prison? Is there anyone who has ever told him to wait, to take heart? He is all alone, or so he believes, at the mercy of this devilish plot. I want him to know at least that while I live I will not abandon him! Very well, I agree not to try and see Napoleon – for the present. But I want to see Jason. I want to get inside La Force.'

'Marianne!' Talleyrand exclaimed, alarmed by her excited state. 'How can you do that?'

'Nothing could be simpler.' It was Crawfurd, coolly intervening. 'For a long time now, I have had turnkeys in every prison in Paris in my pay.'

'You have?' Talleyrand appeared genuinely astonished.

Shrugging his heavy shoulders, Crawfurd eased himself with a sigh of relief into the armchair which Marianne had quitted, and drawing a low stool towards him tenderly placed his gouty foot upon it.

'It is a useful precaution,' he said, with a small chuckle, 'when one has had, and will doubtless continue to have, friends under lock and key. It is a practice I have been familiar with for a long time. My first – er – clients were two of the gaolers in the Temple, and after that at the Conciergerie. Since then, I have maintained the habit. It is not difficult, if one has money. So you want to see your friend, little Princess? Well, I, Crawfurd, promise you that you shall.'

Marianne, trembling with happiness, could scarcely bring herself to believe in the miracle that was being offered her. To have the gates of Jason's prison open to her, to see him, talk to him, touch him, tell him – oh, she had so many things to tell him.

'You would do that for me?' she asked huskily, as though trying to convince herself.

Crawfurd raised a pair of china-blue eyes to her and smiled:

'You have listened to all my stories with such patience, child, that you deserve some reward. Besides, I have not forgotten what my Queen owed to your family. It is one way of paying the debt. Leave it to me. Before a week is out, you shall be inside La Force.'

CHAPTER EIGHT An Odd Kind of Prisoner

The cab turned out of the me St-Antoine and entered, at right-angles to it, a short stub of a street no more than thirty yards long and ten broad, blocked at its farther end by a low, grim-looking building on one floor surmounted by a mansard roof nearly as high again, behind which rose another, taller building. In the darkness, the few peeling houses which gave on to this close, which was called the rue des Ballets, had a sinister appearance and a bleary lantern fixed above a fat stone bollard bound with iron at the farthest corner of the street, almost opposite the entrance to the prison, shone on the greasy cobbles, slippery with the mud and filth left by the rain which had fallen in the early part of the evening. A deep gutter running down the middle of the street was intended to drain off both the water and the refuse but in practice constituted only an additional hazard in the uneven surface. The cab lurched and the driver brought his horse to a stop under the lantern, alongside the squat, round bollard, and, with a weary, automatic gesture, leaned down and opened the door on Marianne's side.

Crawfurd, with a swift movement of his stick, hooked it shut again.

'No,' he said roughly. 'Get out my side. Let me go first.'

'Why? The bollard will help—'

'That bollard,' the old man cut her short grimly, 'is where the mob dismembered the body of the Princesse de Lamballe. You will soil your gloves.'

Marianne turned with a shudder from the worn stone and took the hand which her companion was holding out to assist her from the cab, taking care as she did so not to put too much weight on it. Crawfurd's gout was better than it had been, but he still walked with difficulty.

Seeing them descend from the cab, the guard who had been dozing in the noisome sentry box beside the gate, his gun between his knees, got up and straightened his shako:

'Who goes there?'

'Now then, soldier,' Crawfurd said in a low voice, instantly, much to Marianne's surprise, slipping into a strong Normandy accent. 'No need to shout. Keeper Ducatel is a countryman of mine and we have come, my daughter Madeleine and myself that is, to have a little supper with him.'

A large silver coin gleamed for a moment in the fitful light of the lamp and roused an answering gleam in the eye of the guard, who uttered a shout of laughter and pocketed the coin:

'You should've said so right away, man. He's a right one, old Ducatel, and been here long enough to make a few friends, eh. I'm one on 'em. In you go, then.'

He banged vigorously on the low door which stood at the top of a pair of worn steps and was surmounted by a heavily barred fanlight.

'Hi there! Ducatel! Someone to see you!'

While the driver of the cab was still engaged in turning his horse in the narrow rue du Roi de Sicile, preparatory to waiting for them by St Paul's, the door opened, revealing an individual in a brown woollen cap holding a candle in one hand. This candle he raised until it was practically under the noses of his visitors and then, having apparently recognized who they were by this time, he exclaimed: 'Ha! Cousin Grouville! You're late! We were just going to eat without you. And here's my little Madeleine. Come you in then. You've grown a fine big girl now!'

Endeavouring to sound as provincial as possible, Marianne managed to utter a word of greeting. Ducatel, still continuing his flow of welcoming chat, assured the guard that 'a nice mug of Calvados' should be sent out to him as a reward for his trouble, and then shut the door behind them. Marianne saw that she was in a narrow entrance passage ending in a turnstile. To the right was the guardroom through the half-open door of which four soldiers could be seen smoking and playing cards by the lights of a couple of lamps. Still talking loudly, Ducatel led his guests up to and through the turnstile, then opened a door into another darkened room at the far end of which was a second turnstile. Here, Ducatel paused.

'My lodging looks on to the rue du Roi de Sicile,' he said in a whisper. 'I'll take you there, M'sieur, and we'll make a little bit of noise so that the guards know we're at supper. I'd've had you in by my private door, but it's always best to look open and above board.'

'I can find my way alone, my good Ducatel,' Crawfurd replied in the same tone, nodding approval as he spoke. 'You take the lady to the prisoner you know of.'

Ducatel nodded his understanding and opened the gate:

'This way, then… He's an important prisoner so he's not in the new building. He's been put with the "specials" in the Condé room… very nearly by himself.'

As he spoke, Ducatel unlocked a further door and led Marianne across a courtyard. Crawfurd, meanwhile, turned to the left in the direction of the region known as the Kitchen Court, an appellation more than justified by the powerful smell of greasy soup emanating from it, beyond which lay the keeper's quarters.

As she followed the turnkey, Marianne looked about her with distaste at the buildings surrounding the courtyard and the treeless expanse of cracked paving which was the entrance to the prison itself: high, menacing walls, crumbling and worm-eaten, dotted with barred windows from behind which came an assortment of nightmare groans and shrieks, hideous laughter and the sound of men snoring, and all the other multifarious noises made by the dirty and dangerous portion of humanity penned within by crime and fear. Four floors of rogues, thieves, debtors, convicts escaped and recaptured, murderers, criminals of every kind which the slums of Paris and elsewhere had thrown up into the net of the police. Here was none of the medieval yet not altogether squalid simplicity of Vincennes, for this was not a place for prisoners of state, held for political offences. This was the common gaol, where all the vilest felons were huddled in appallingly overcrowded conditions.

'We had a bit of a job,' Ducatel confided to Marianne, 'to find him a corner that was a bit quiet-like.' He was leading her up a staircase whose wrought-iron handrail betrayed that in the days of the dukes of La Force it had been noble and handsome, though now the treads were cracked and slippery and made the ascent perilous. 'The prison is stuffed as full as it can hold, you know. Never gets much emptier, either. Here we are now…' He indicated an iron-studded door which had come into view in the thickness of the wall. The keeper opened a spy-hole in the door and a little yellowish light filtered out into the passage.

'Someone to see you, M'sieur Beaufort!' he said into the opening before drawing the bolts. Then he added in a lower tone to Marianne: 'It's not my fault, M'dame, but I can't let you have more than an hour or so, I'm afraid. I'll be back to fetch you before they do the rounds.'

'Thank you. You are very kind.'

The door opened almost noiselessly and Marianne slipped through the opening and stood looking a little startled at the sight which met her eyes. On either side of a rickety table, two men were seated, playing cards by the light of a candle. Something which might have been another man was lying curled up in a ball in the corner, on one of the three truckle beds, wrapped in an uneasy slumber. One of the two card players was Jason. The other was an individual about thirty-five years old, tall, dark and active-looking with a good-looking face, regular features, a mocking curve to his lips and bright, inquisitive black eyes. Seeing that a woman had entered the room, the second man rose at once while Jason, too surprised to do more than stare, sat still, the cards still in his hand:

'Marianne! You! But I thought—'

'I thought,' his companion broke in with heavy irony, 'that you, my friend, were a gentleman. Did no one ever teach you to stand up for a lady?'

Jason rose mechanically and as he did so received Marianne full in his arms, laughing and crying at once.

'Oh, my love, my love! I couldn't bear it! I had to come—''

'This is madness! You should be in exile, they may be looking for you…'

But even as he protested, his hands were drawing her face close to his. His blue eyes shone out of a face too deeply weatherbeaten for a few weeks' incarceration to whiten it with a joy which his words tried to deny. His expression, oddly touching in a man of his strength, was like that of a lonely, unhappy child who, expecting nothing, suddenly finds that Father Christmas has come and brought him the most wonderful present. He gazed at Marianne, unable to speak another word, then suddenly crushed her to him and kissed her hungrily, like a starving man. Marianne closed her eyes and abandoned herself to his kiss, feeling as if she could die of happiness. It was nothing to her that the man who held her in his arms was unshaven and filthy dirty, and that the cell smelled anything but sweet. It was obvious that, to her, paradise had nothing more to offer.

From their respective positions by the table and the door, the other prisoner and Ducatel looked on, smiling, and with a degree of awed fascination, at this unexpected love scene. However, when it showed no signs of breaking up, the prisoner gave a shrug and, throwing his cards down on the table, announced: 'Right! I'm not wanted here. Ducatel, will you ask me to supper?'

'With the best will in the world, my lad. You're already expected.'

The effect of this exchange on the two lovers was to bring their embrace to a swift conclusion and they stood looking so shamefaced at the speed with which they had forgotten the existence of everything but themselves that the prisoner burst out laughing:

'It's all right, you needn't look like that, you know! We all know what it is to be in love.'

Marianne gave him a withering glare and turned indignantly to the keeper:

'Is it necessary that Monsieur Beaufort should be forced to endure the company of—'

'Of people like me? Alas, Madame, the prison is overfull and it cannot be helped. But we don't rub along too badly, do we, friend?'

'No,' Jason responded, grinning, in spite of himself, at Marianne's outraged expression, 'it might be a great deal worse! In fact, I'll even introduce you.'

'Spare yourself the trouble,' the other prisoner interrupted him. 'I mean to do that myself. Fair lady, you see before you your genuine gallows bird, not often met with in polite society: François Vidocq of Arras, three times convicted felon and in a fair way to be so again. Deep bow and exits left, as they say in the theatre. Come, Ducatel. I'm hungry.'

'And that?' Marianne said furiously, indicating the black bundle which had continued to jerk and mutter indistinguishably. 'Aren't you taking that with you?'

'Who? The abbé? He'll not trouble you. He's half-cracked and talks nothing but Spanish. Besides, it would be a shame to wake him. He's having such lovely nightmares.'

And escorted almost respectfully by the keeper, the strange prisoner, apparently very much at home, departed from the cell to go and sup with his gaoler as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

'Well!' said Marianne, recovering from her astounded contemplation of this exit. 'Who is that man?'

'He told you,' Jason said, folding her in his arms again. 'He is an habitual felon, always escaping and as often returning, what they call here an old lag.'

'Is he – a murderer?'

'No, a thief merely. I am the murderer here,' Jason said wryly. 'He's a curious fellow, but I owe him my life.'

'You do?'

'Yes, indeed! You don't know this prison. It is a hell inhabited by demons, a sink of all that is base and cruel and ugly, where the law of the strongest prevails. I was a stranger – well dressed, which was enough to make them take me in dislike. I should have been a dead man beyond a doubt if François had not taken me under his protection. He is a great man hereabouts, and he has the trick of taming these ravening beasts. That poor devil sleeping over there has him to thank that he is still alive. It's a grand thing to be a master of escape. Even the turnkeys respect him – as you've seen!'

Marianne understood the danger which had threatened Jason on his first arrival at La Force better than he could have known. She herself retained vivid memories of the one night she had spent in the prison of St Lazare and from time to time in her dreams she still saw the leering face of the woman known as La Tricoteuse who had tried to kill her only because she was young and beautiful. She saw the yellow eyes and evil grin, and the horrible skill with which the creature had wielded her clumsy knife.

Just then, the black bundle which was an abbe stirred suddenly on his pallet bed and sat up with a smothered shriek. Marianne could see a gaunt, raggedly bearded face and eyes that looked at her with staring terror.

'Tranquilo,' Jason murmured quickly. 'Es un'amiga.'

The abbé's head nodded and with a sigh he turned his back on the young people and lay down again obediently.

'There,' Jason said comfortably. 'He'll not move again. He has very nice manners. Now let's forget him. Come and sit by me, let me look at you. You are so lovely! No, don't speak!'

He led her to a kind of plank bed covered with a moth-eaten rug and made her sit down, all without taking his eyes from her. If the truth were told, there was little in Marianne's modest print gown, made high to the throat, which was the most countrified thing she had been able to find in her wardrobe, to justify his enthusiasm, yet even in her most fairytale dresses, her most fabulous jewels, Jason had never looked at her like this. It was miraculous and yet at the same time oddly disturbing, so disturbing that Marianne found herself withdrawing a little. She kissed his unshaven cheek lightly:

'Yes but I have come to talk, and we have so little time—'

'No. Hush now. I don't want to waste these moments in talk. They may never come again – and I have prayed so hard just to see you again – if only once!'

He buried his head in her neck but, thoroughly alarmed now, she pushed him away.

'What do you mean? Why may we never meet again? Your trial—'

'I have no illusions about my trial,' Jason said, with a degree of patience he was far from feeling. 'I shall be found guilty and condemned—'

'But – oh, no – not to—' She could not bring herself to say the words which, in this prison setting, had acquired a horrible reality. But Jason nodded:

'Very possibly – even probably. No, be quiet.' His hand came quickly over her lips, checking her fierce protest. 'It is always best to look things in the face. All the evidence is against me. Unless the real culprit is found, which is highly unlikely, the judges will find me guilty. I know that.'

'But this is fantastic! Insane! Jason, all is not yet lost! Arcadius has gone to Aix, to make Fouché give evidence. Fouché can tell how matters stood between myself and Black Fish!'

'But he cannot state positively that I did not kill him. Look, this business is the outcome of a political plot. And I am caught in the toils.'

'Then your ambassador must defend you!'

'He will not. He has told me so himself, Marianne, here in this very prison, because to do so would be a sure way of bringing about the ruin of the present negotiations between President Madison and France to get the decrees concerning the Continental Blockade revoked where America is concerned. It is all very complicated—'

'No,' Marianne broke in, desperately. 'I know. Talleyrand told me all about the Berlin and Milan decrees.'

'God bless him, then,' Jason said, with his crooked smile. 'Well, France's conditions are these: that my country must persuade England, with whom we are not on the best of terms, to revoke what are called the "orders in council", in other words, the English retort to the decrees. And the first condition, naturally, is that the United States shall make no move to interfere with the course of justice so far as I am concerned – this affair of the forged notes is too serious. Cadore has said as much in a note to Armstrong. Armstrong is sorry – but there is nothing he can do. He is almost as much a prisoner as I am. Do you see?'

'No,' Marianne persisted stubbornly. 'I shall never see why they have to sacrifice you – because that is what they are doing, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is. But when you think that my country is prepared to go to war with England as a proof of good faith to Napoleon if the orders in council are not rescinded, you can imagine that my own life matters very little. Nor would I wish it to. You see, my love… we must all serve as we can – and I love my country above all things.'

'More than me, even?' Marianne said quietly, on the verge of tears.

Jason did not answer. Instead, his arms tightened round her and he sought her lips again. His heart was hammering so hard that Marianne seemed to feel it beating in her own breast. She felt the shuddering of his whole body and she knew that his desires had grown beyond his power to master them, a knowledge only confirmed when, lifting his head briefly from the lips which he had been crushing under his own, he began to plead with her softly: 'My darling, I entreat you… this may be our only chance… Now I am asking you to let me love you…'

Marianne's heart leapt. Gently, she pushed him away once more, and when she heard him groan she murmured softly: 'A moment, my beloved, only a moment…'

Then, lifted beyond herself by a love stronger than fear or modesty, Marianne stood up, oblivious of the priest lying a few yards away. He might be asleep or not, he had his back to them at least. Not taking her eyes from Jason who stayed where he was, half-kneeling, his gaze fixed intently on her, she stripped off all her garments one by one and dropped them on the greasy floor. Then, proud and unashamed, she walked into the arms held open to receive her, and the rough and grimy pallet which was Jason's bed became for Marianne a couch softer and more sumptuous than any she had ever lain on, even in that princely palace where she had slept so many nights alone. Yet she blessed the semi-darkness of the prison, for Jason had snuffed the single candle and only a faint moonlight shone into the cell, because it hid the weal, still red and angry, of the burn which Chernychev had given her. She did not want to have to lie to him, nor yet to involve herself in explanations which would have left a scar on Jason's happiness. In that one, irrecoverable moment when Marianne learned at last in joy and wonder what it meant to become one with another person, the past must be blotted out and even the dread future cry a truce.

When the door opened again a little while later, the candle was burning again and Jason was helping Marianne to put her dress to rights. But it was not Ducatel who appeared. The prisoner named François Vidocq stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped nonchalantly against the door jamb, and after a brief glance at the abbé who was now snoring like a grampus, surveyed the lovers with an air of great amusement.

'A woman of substance, indeed, Madame,' he remarked chattily. 'You have brought him the one thing that could do him good.'

'Mind your own business,' Marianne snapped, all the more furious because he had been right. She felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair and, as she always did when threatened with embarrassment, she lost her temper. 'Besides,' she went on hotly, 'you are talking of matters you know nothing about! The only thing that could "do him good", as you put it, would be if they would acknowledge his innocence and set him free.'

'We are all in God's hands,' Vidocq observed with exaggerated piety. 'Who knows what tomorrow may bring? As the poet says, "Patience and time work more than strength and fury".'

'And however often goes the pitcher to the well, in the end it will be broken… Do you think I came here to listen to proverbs? Jason,' she cried desperately, turning to him, 'tell him you are lost, that your one hope now is – is to escape! And if he is your friend, as he claims to be, and at the same time a master at escaping the police, then he must see…'

A prolonged and obvious yawn brought Marianne's impassioned tirade to an abrupt halt. She glared at Vidocq with a look of sheer murder on her face while he cocked a thumb in the direction of the open door.

'I hate to be a spoil sport, but Ducatel is waiting for you, fair one – and the watch is due in five minutes.'

'You must go, Marianne,' Jason told her seriously as she clung to him by a kind of instinct. 'And you must be sensible. You have made me – so very, very happy. I shall think of you always. But we must say good-bye now.'

'No, not good-bye… or only for a little while! I shall come again and—'

'No. I forbid you to. It would not be wise. You are forgetting that you yourself are watched. I must know that you are safe, at least.'

'Don't you want to see me again?' Marianne was almost in tears.

He kissed the tip of her nose lightly, then her eyes and then her lips.

'Silly! I have only to close my eyes to see you. You will never leave me. But I must be wise for two – and now, especially, when your life may be at stake.'

'Only four minutes!' The turnkey's head appeared round the door, looking anxious. 'You'll have to hurry, lady.'

With one last kiss, Marianne tore herself bravely from Jason's side. She was half out of the door when Vidocq caught her arm and spoke to her softly:

'Do you know the Persian poets?'

'N-no, but—'

'One of them has written: "Never lose hope, even in the midst of disaster, for the toughest bone contains the sweetest marrow." Go now.'

She glanced up at him uncertainly before, blowing one last kiss to Jason, she hurried out to join Ducatel who was pacing up and down outside like a caged bear.

'Hurry!' he told her, shutting the door swiftly. 'We've got no more than three minutes! Here, take my hand. We'll have to run for it.'

They raced together for the stairs while from the passages behind them the measured tread of the watchmen on their rounds was already making itself heard. At the same time, at the clatter of heavy, nailed boots, the whole prison seemed to come awake. Oaths, curses and ugly shouts rang out on all sides until it seemed as if each door concealed its own miniature version of hell. The smell which even in Jason's cell had been unpleasant, became frankly unendurable as they passed certain doors and when they emerged at last into the Cour du Greffe Marianne found herself taking in great gulps of fresh air. They had resumed a normal walking pace by now and the keeper remarked as he let go Marianne's hand:

'I dare say a little glass of something wouldn't do either of us any harm, my lady. You looked like a sheet when you came out, and I can't say I feel so hot myself, after that close shave.'

'I'm sorry. But tell me, this man François Vidocq, is he indeed an escaped convict?'

'I'll say he is. The guards can watch him for all they're worth, but they can never keep a hold on him. Every time he slips through their fingers. But he can't keep out of trouble, seemingly. He always comes trotting back again. But don't get me wrong. He's not one of your real desperate ruffians. He's not killed anyone. So back they sends him again to serve his time – Toulon, Rochefort, Brest, he knows them all. They're all the same to him. Just the same this time, it'll be. They'll pack him away, and after a bit he'll be off out of it again as usual. And then the whole round will begin again, until one day one of his guards has had enough and quietly puts him away. And that'll be a pity, because he's not a bad lad…'

But Marianne was no longer listening. She was pondering in her heart the words this strange prisoner had said to her. He had mentioned hope, and hope was the one word she had needed to hear, since Jason had not uttered it. More, he seemed resigned, almost indifferent, accepting with what seemed to her a terrifying calmness the possibility of dying for his country's service.

'He shall not die,' she vowed inwardly. 'I shall not let them kill him and he shall not die! Even if his judges condemn him, I will make the Emperor listen to me and he will have to grant me his life…'

That was the one thing that mattered. Even if life meant a slow death in penal servitude. Until that day she had always thought of it as a kind of foretaste of hell from which no one ever emerged alive. But this man Vidocq was living proof that it was not so. And she knew that while Jason lived she, Marianne, would devote every moment of her life to saving him from the undeserved penalty awaiting him. Gathering together all her strength, she thrust away her fears, her anguish and all thoughts of farewell. Every atom of her being belonged to Jason Beaufort but she believed too that Jason Beaufort belonged henceforth to her and her alone. And because of this she felt a greater strength and fighting spirit than she had ever known before, even on the night when, sword in hand, she had challenged Francis Cranmere to answer for the slur on her honour. The fire of the ancient blood of Auvergne and the unrelenting tenacity of her English descent united in her to produce all the warlike qualities of those other women from whose line she came who had studded history with their loves, their passions and their vengeances: Agnes de Ventadour who had turned Crusader to be revenged on a faithless lover, Catherine de Montsalvy who had risked death a hundred times for the husband she loved, Isabelle de Montsalvy, her daughter, who had fought her way to happiness through the horrors of the Wars of the Roses, Lucrèce de Gadagne, wielding a sword like a man to win back her castle of Tournoel, Sidonia d'Asselnat who had fought like a man yet loved like ten women during the Fronde, and so many more. Go back as far as she would in the annals of her family, Marianne would find the same story, the same pattern of war and arms, of blood and love. Only fate might change the course of human life, but as she followed the keeper down the damp passage leading to his lodging, Marianne knew that she had at last accepted the crushing weight of that heritage, owned herself daughter and sister to all these women because now she had found her own cause for which to fight and to live. And so, she felt no sadness or grief but rather a sense of happiness and exultation and triumph, drawn from the hour which had just passed, but most of all a vast, inner peace. Everything was suddenly so simple. Henceforth, she and Jason were one heart and one flesh. If one died, then the other would die too… and that would be the end.

As she left the prison, she thanked the keeper warmly and slid into his hand a number of gold coins which brought the blood rushing into his cheeks. Then, slipping back into her part of the country girl elated by a good supper and a drop of wine, she hung on Crawfurd's arm as they set out on the short walk to the church of St Paul where the Scotsman had told the cab driver to wait for them, rather than attract attention by lingering outside the prison. The sentry called out a jovial good night to them as they moved slowly away, walking carefully to avoid tripping on the uneven cobbles.

'You're happy, I can tell,' Crawfurd said softly as they turned into the rue St-Antoine. 'Am I right?'

'Yes. It's quite true, I am happy. Not that Jason gave me much encouragement to hope. He expects to be found guilty and, worst of all, he seems to be resigned to it, because the good of his country demands it.'

'That does not surprise me. These Americans are like their own splendid country: simple and big. Pray God they may never change! All the same, he may be resigned, but that is no reason for us all to be so – eh? As our friend Talleyrand would say.'

'I agree. But I wanted to tell you—'

However, Quintin Crawfurd was not destined to hear what Marianne wanted to tell him of her gratitude, because as they approached the little group of elm trees in the miniature square in front of the old Jesuit church, the Scotsman suddenly pressed the arm which lay within his.

'Sssh!' he said… There is something there…'

A light wind had got up, sending the heavy rain clouds scudding across the sky, veiling the moon so that it shone through only as a pale, diffused glow. Against this faint lightening of the darkness, the trees in front of them seemed to have taken on strange, moving shapes, as if men in billowing cloaks might be concealed behind them. The square shape of the cab was clearly to be seen near the church but the driver was not on the box. A whinny made Marianne glance to her right and she made out several horses standing in a side alley. It needed no words, nor the movement made by Crawfurd drawing the hidden pistol very slowly from the inner pocket of his cloak, to make Marianne suspect a trap, but she had no time to wonder any more.

There was a sudden movement, as if the trees had come to life, and in a twinkling the two on foot found themselves the centre of a menacing circle of black, silent shapes of men dressed in full capes and broad-brimmed hats. Crawfurd presented his pistol:

'What do you want? If you mean to rob us, we have no money onus.'

'Put up your weapon, Señor,' said one of the shadowy figures, speaking in a strong Spanish accent. 'We have more powerful ones trained on you. It is not gold that we are after.'

'Then what do you want?'

But the Spaniard, whose face was invisible beneath his wide hat, disregarded the question, and at a sign from him the Scotsman found himself expertly gagged and bound. Then the man turned to the figure at his side:

'That is the one?'

The person addressed, who was much shorter and slighter than the first speaker, moved a step or two closer and, taking a dark lantern from beneath the enveloping cloak, opened the shutter and held it up so that the light shone on Marianne's face. At the same time, the light fell on the cloaked figure and revealed it to be a woman. It was Pilar.

'It is she!' she proclaimed on a note of triumph. 'Thank you, my good Vasquez, for all the time you have spent watching here. I knew that, sooner or later, she would come to the prison.'

'Do you mean to tell me,' Marianne said scornfully, 'that this man has been watching the prison for all these weeks purely on the chance of procuring for you this delightful encounter?'

'Precisely. For more than a month we have waited. Ever since, in fact, we heard that Prince Talleyrand had returned from Bourbon l'Archambault… and that the Princess Sant'Anna was too ill to leave her room. Don Alonso took a lodging in the rue des Ballets and kept watch. We knew that you were not in the prince's house, nor your own. You had to be somewhere, and watching the prison was the one way to find out.'

'I congratulate you,' Marianne said. 'I had not known that you were so intelligent… or so talkative. And now what do you mean to do with us? Kill us?'

Pilar's pale face was thrust close to hers. Hatred gleamed in the black eyes but Marianne stared back coolly into the beautiful features, their purity already ravaged by bitterness and despair. If ever she had seen her death written in a human face it was here, but in the strength of her newly consummated love she felt no fear. Besides, Pilar was speaking:

'That would be too easy! No, we are merely going to take you with us and take good care of you, in case you should do anything foolish. We cannot have any ill-considered action of yours interfering with the course of justice. I had thought at first to hand you over to the police, but it seems that your Napoleon has a fondness for you.'

'If I were you, I would not forget that fondness. He does not take kindly to having his friends kidnapped!'

'He will not know. After all – you are still in exile, are you not? You had better silence the lady, gentlemen, she seems to be about to scream.'

This was true. But before Marianne could do more than open her mouth to alert the people in the nearby houses, she found herself firmly gagged, then bound and bundled into the cab to join Crawfurd. One of the cloaked men jumped on to the box but Pilar and Vasquez got in with their prisoners. Seated, facing her enemy, Pilar frowned:

'Better bandage their eyes as well, my friend. I don't want them to know where they are taken.'

This the Spaniard did and Marianne, robbed of both sight and speech, could only sit and think her own thoughts, which seemed suddenly to have become rather less optimistic. Things had ceased, in fact, to be as simple as she had been inclined to think. Ever since leaving Jason she had been buoying herself up with the comforting illusion that she was going to snatch her lover from death and set him free, a freedom which she naturally intended that he should share with her. Failing this, she had been determined to die with him, or at least at the same time, so that they might embark together, hand in hand, on an eternity of love. She had even got to the point of imagining the letter she would leave for Jolival, so that he might unite both their bodies in a single grave, and, rather like a spoiled child saying 'I'll die and then they'll be sorry', she had even derived a certain satisfaction from the thought of Napoleon's grief and remorse when he should learn that by his harshness he had driven his nightingale to her death. In all of which, she found herself obliged to confess bitterly, she had quite forgotten the disagreeable fact of Pilar…

Until then, she had thought of Pilar as a fanatical barbarian, incapable of any normal train of thought, whose main aim in running to seek refuge with the unlikely Queen of Spain at her court at Mortefontaine had simply been to pull her own chestnuts out of the fire. She had believed her proud and unbalanced, and even base because to satisfy her own unworthy longing for revenge she had sided with the police against her husband. But she could never have believed that her hatred could go so wickedly far. What was it the creature had said? That no action of Marianne's must interfere with the course of justice?… In other words, she was kidnapping Marianne to prevent her from doing anything to rescue Jason!

For a moment, Marianne seemed to hear Talleyrand again. 'Pilar comes of a fierce and passionate race… an injured woman may deliver up her faithless lover to execution without flinching – and then wall herself up alive in a nunnery to expiate her crime…'

That was it! They were going to keep Marianne locked up in some dungeon from which she could not escape until Jason had been executed. Perhaps then they might do her the favour of killing her also? No doubt it would all make the path of expiation much easier for the saintly Pilar!

'If I were in her place,' Marianne thought, 'I should probably kill my rival, but not for anything in the world would I harm the man I loved.'

Her bonds were hurting her and the gag was making it hard for her to breathe. She tried to wriggle herself into a more comfortable position.

'Sit still,' came Pilar's voice coldly. We shall be changing carriages very soon.'

They had travelled only a short distance in the cab, but already it was slowing down. Several hands seized Marianne none too gently and dragged her out, but scarcely had her feet touched the ground before she was lifted up again and felt herself set down on a cushioned seat, much softer than the previous one. Her elbows touched silky velvet. But at the same time she knew for certain that the person sitting beside her was no longer Quintin Crawfurd. It was Pilar. Marianne's delicate nostrils had picked up at once the characteristically heavy scent of carnations and jasmine which she used. No one else entered the carriage and the prisoner began to feel seriously anxious on behalf of her companion, whose stifled grunts she could hear coming from some way away. Then someone spoke through the window, in Spanish:

'What shall we do with the other one?'

'I have told you,' Pilar replied. 'Drive him to the place you know of. I can promise you the police will not come looking for him there, supposing that they look for him at all.'

'They'll do that all right, Dona Pilar, you may be sure. When his wife finds he's not come home she'll raise heaven and earth.'

'Not necessarily. It would mean admitting that they had an exile hidden under their roof. The important part, in any case, is that nothing should be known before the date we have settled. We can let him go after that. We have nothing against him. Which reminds me, did you pay the driver of the cab?'

The man Vasquez's reply to this was a low, guttural laugh which made Marianne's blood run cold. Even Pilar was moved to protest:

'You should not have done that. We are not at home now.'

'Bah! Another curst Frenchman the less! Go now. Three of our men will go with you and we will meet again there. And if I may make a suggestion, she had better not be seen. Allow me.'

Marianne was seized again, bundled up in something rough and warm and smelling so strongly of the stables that it must have been a horse blanket, and dumped unceremoniously on the floor of the chaise.

'I had meant to do that before we arrived,' Pilar said.

'You are all goodness! Are you so fond of the harlot who has stolen your husband?'

'How well you understand me, Don Alonso,' Pilar purred. Her voice was so seraphic that it made Marianne immediately long to bite. 'Thank you. Thank you a thousand times. You have made the prospect of the journey very agreeable – to me at all events.'

The prisoner, lying totally helpless on the carpeted floor of the vehicle, was soon made well aware of how agreeable the journey was to be for her by feeling her enemy's feet planted firmly on her chest. Rather than add to Pilar's enjoyment, however, she refrained from any reaction of her outrage.

"You'll pay for this!' she swore inwardly. "You'll pay a hundred times over, for this and everything else. You single-minded savage! When I get my hands on you, you murderous she-devil, I'll show you what I can do…'

Thereafter, the names which Marianne in her impotent fury applied to Pilar were of a sadly descending order of refinement, being almost exclusively borrowed from the vocabulary of old Dobs, the groom at Selton who had taught Marianne to ride. Nor, indeed, was she invariably certain of the precise meaning of the terms she invoked, but she derived a good deal of comfort from the thought that nothing was too base to describe a woman who could permit the cold-blooded murder of an innocent cab driver, to say nothing of the savagery with which she was working to bring Jason to the block.

Angry, bruised and half-stifled, Marianne lay, feeling the chaise move off smartly, travelling at first over the jolting cobbled streets of Paris. Then, still muffled in her rug, she thought she heard the clash of arms and a brief word of command, as if they were passing a guard post of some kind, although the vehicle had not slowed down. She guessed that they had in fact passed out of the city limits when the driver whipped up the horses to a still faster pace over a good road in which the pot-holes were few.

She heard Pilar, above her, give vent to a sigh of relief, and then felt the blanket being moved away from her face.

'I don't wish you to suffocate,' the Señora said, with insulting solicitude. 'That would be much too quick. Besides, you may as well try and sleep, my dear, because we have a good two hours ahead of us.'

The Spaniard's feet resumed their position but Marianne had succeeded in shifting herself round so as no longer to have them immediately under her nose, though it made her slightly more uncomfortable. At least she was spared the slight of her foe's complacent expression, and thus able to devote herself to her own thoughts.

Two hours? At the rate the horses were travelling, and bearing in mind that there would have to be a change somewhere if Pilar intended to keep up this rapid pace, that would mean a distance of about twenty miles. But a knowledge of how far it might be to the place where she was to be held captive did not tell her very much about the place itself, since she had no idea by which gate they had left Paris. Never mind, she knew at least that if she did manage to escape she would have to steal a horse, or else resign herself to the prospect of walking back to Paris – not that the thought frightened her. In order to escape from her captors and fly to Jason's rescue she would gladly have walked to Paris from Marseille.

Rather than waste her strength to no purpose, Marianne forced herself to relax as far as possible in her cramped position. Old Dobs's advice came back to her now, perhaps because she had been thinking of him before:

'Relax, Miss Marianne. It's one of the secrets of a good fencer – and of a good shot. It saves wear and tear on the nerves and helps to keep you cool. You have to teach your muscles to relax.'

Then the old man had taught her how, systematically, to relax her arms and legs, take deep breaths. Now, in spite of her bonds, Marianne strove to put his lessons into practice. At the same time, she did her best to make her mind a blank, shutting out even the memory of those miraculous moments in La Force because she could not think of them calmly, and in the end she succeeded so well that she fell sound asleep.

She was woken by the soft plop of the blanket landing once more on her face. Almost at once, there was the metallic creak of gates being opened and another clash of arms, as if they had come to a guard post again. Then the chaise was bowling over some soft, smooth surface which might have been the sanded driveway through a private park. They went on for some way but the rug was wrapped so closely round her head that Marianne could hear nothing. Indeed, it was as much as she could do to breathe.

After what seemed an age, they stopped and she thought that now she would be untied and the gag removed, but nothing of the kind occurred. Two pairs of hands hauled her out of the chaise. There was a splashing and the rattle of a chain, then a soft thud like that made by a boat bumping against a jetty. Her bearers' footsteps, too, had a hollow, wooden sound and almost at once she was deposited in the bottom of a lightly swaying boat. They must be going to cross a river – unless – the thought that came into her mind was a nasty one but it lasted only an instant. Pilar had repeated several times since her capture that they had no intention of killing her immediately, she was to be made to suffer first.

Someone took the oars and the boat began to move out smoothly over the water. The surface must be quite calm and waveless. A lake, perhaps, or a pool of some kind? Her nerves at full stretch,

Marianne listened for every sound that might tell her more, but apart from the faint splash of oars and the slightly deeper breathing of the man rowing she heard nothing beyond the cry of an owl in the distance.

The boat drove against a soft bottom and stopped. Once again, Marianne was seized but this time the hands hoisted her on to a particularly hard and uncomfortable back, as though she had been a sack of flour. Her arms were gripped firmly by a gloved hand that might have been made of iron and a bony shoulder dug into her stomach as she lay, bent double, with her head hanging forward.

The man carrying her smelled strongly of the stables, with an underlying odour of rancid oil. The combination was a peculiarly unpleasant one but Marianne had little time to reflect upon it before she felt herself being carried up something that seemed to be either a ladder or some very rudimentary staircase. The treads creaked alarmingly and the climb seemed to go on for ever. At last their progress became horizontal once again and at the same time a mixture of dry, country smells, hay and straw and dust, filled Marianne's nostrils, overcoming the human smell. She was dropped suddenly on to what could only be a pile of hay and almost at once her bonds were loosed, the gag taken from her mouth and the blindfold removed from her eyes.

By the light of the dark lantern carried by one of the men, Marianne saw that she was, as she had guessed, in a large loft three parts full of hay. Just in front of her was a tousle-haired giant, puffing like a grampus, who had apparently been the one carrying her. The other man was still wearing his broad-brimmed hat, long cloak and black mask. Last of all, she saw Pilar come through a narrow opening, which had evidently been formed by the removal of two broad planks from the partition wall.

'Well, here you are. Make yourself at home,' the masked man said. 'You'll do well enough. It's quite dry and the hay is better than bare boards.'

'I suppose I ought to thank you,' Marianne said cuttingly. 'I've always liked the smell of fresh hay. But I should like to know how long you mean to keep me here.'

Before the man could answer, Pilar drew him back with a gesture to him to be silent and it was she who answered:

'You know that already. I wish to prevent you from interfering with the course of justice. You will remain here until a certain verdict has been reached and sentence duly carried out.'

'You call yourself a woman!' the prisoner burst out, unable to contain herself any longer. 'You call yourself his wife! You are nothing but a common murderess, a half-crazy, lying fanatic! Is this how you repay Jason for what he did for you? You see, I know why he married you – he wanted to save your life when it was threatened on account of your father's American sympathies!'

'My father's sympathies were not mine. I should have made my countrymen see where my loyalties were. I did not need Señor Beaufort to marry me for that!'

'Then what did you marry him for? Tell me that if you dare!… No, you dare not, of course! Well, I will tell you. You made him marry you by pretending to be a poor, helpless, persecuted girl. You threw yourself on him for protection because it was your only chance to get him for yourself! You were mad for him, weren't you? Yet you knew quite well that he was not in love with you!'

Pilar's foot, in its pointed shoe, caught Marianne agonizingly under the ribs, making her bite back a hiss of pain. In an instant she was on her feet, hurling herself at her enemy, only to find herself caught and held by the two men who had sprung forward to catch her. Pilar gave a small, contemptuous laugh:

'I said she was dangerous. Remember, she is a murderess who has already killed one woman. I was right, you see, to provide good, stout fetters. Make her fast, Sanchez.'

The giant grasped Marianne's two wrists in one huge hand and dragged her over the hay to where a brand new chain had been riveted to one of the massive beams. On the end of the chain, which was too short to allow of more than a couple of yards' freedom of movement, was an iron ring which could be fastened by means of a stout padlock. In no time, Marianne's right arm was held fast by the manacle, which fitted tightly round her wrist. The padlock snapped shut.

'There!' Pilar said with satisfaction. 'Now one may talk to you without fear of attack. Your movements will not be unduly restricted and you may await the end of this affair with patience.'

'Talk!' Marianne retorted with scorn. 'Do not hope to hear any talk from me, Señora. All I have to say to you is this: as you so rightly recall, I killed one woman because she insulted me, as I also fought the man who sullied my good name, and won! You have dared to carry me off and treat me like this to stop me from saving a man you know to be innocent – a man you swore before God to be true to—'

'He was the first to break that oath – when he forgot me, his wife, and became your lover! He is forsworn!'

'That is between you and your conscience. And I know of no convent deep and dark enough to shut out the crying of an ill-used conscience. But I will tell you one thing: take care, because I shall escape from you – and I shall have my revenge! Now go away, if you please, and let me go to sleep. I am extremely tired.'

As if she had lost all interest in her captors, Marianne yawned outrageously and, disposing the straw so as to make a comfortable nest for herself, she curled up into a ball, like a cat, with one arm tucked beneath her head, and closed her eyes. After a moment, she heard the man in the hat say quietly in Spanish:

'It is best that we should go back now, Dona Pilar. There might be talk… Have you anything more to say to this woman?'

'No. Nothing more. You are right. We should go back. But keep a close watch on her.'

'Have no fear. Sanchez will be in the next loft. And fastened like that, I don't see how she could escape.'

Marianne thought that her persecutors were about to leave her at last but just as she was on the point of moving away, Pilar remembered something. She turned to the giant, Sanchez, and indicating the prisoner, who was still feigning sleep, she said: 'Wait. Go and take all the pins out of her hair. There is nothing like a hairpin for opening locks.'

The man in the hat gave an obsequious chuckle. 'You think of everything, Dona Pilar,' he said admiringly. 'It makes me very happy to think that you are now one of us.'

Marianne was obliged to stifle her fury while Sanchez's clumsy paws burrowed in her hair in search of every single pin, but she stuck to her promise not to speak another word to Pilar. It was all over in a minute. Carrying the lantern with them, the three departed through the narrow, boarded door and Marianne heard the sound of bolts being drawn on the other side and a heavy bar of metal thudding into place, as though in a real prison. This was followed by a dry rustling and thumping, as though bales of straw were being dragged across the door. Marianne heard the masked man's voice say on a note of satisfaction:

'That will do. The door is quite hidden. But keep your eyes open, Sanchez, all the same. They told me no one would come here before the winter, but you never know.'

From the depths of her sweet-smelling and, all things considered, extremely comfortable couch, Marianne offered a silent blessing to the memory of her Aunt Ellis, who had insisted on her learning several foreign languages. Her knowledge of Spanish had stood her in especially good stead that night because Pilar seemed to have forgotten that Marianne could speak a Castilian every bit as pure as her own. One thing was certain: she was imprisoned in a place where it appeared no one was likely to discover her, but they seemed to have taken elaborate precautions to keep her presence in the hayloft a secret from everyone except those who had actually taken part in her kidnapping. What she needed to know now was just who 'everyone' in this case was likely to be. An idea was already taking shape in her mind. It had started initially from her observations about the length of the journey, which suggested that her rural prison was some twenty miles from Paris, and from the clatter of muskets as they passed through the gate, combined with the extent of the park through which they had passed before entering the boat and, most of all, the precautions which were evidently being taken to conceal her presence. Added to the things Talleyrand and Jolival had said about Pilar's reception by the Queen of Spain and about the attention of a certain Alonso Vasquez, the inference was inevitably that she had been taken to Mortefontaine, to the huge estate where Joseph Bonaparte's wife was living while her husband was attempting to reign in Madrid. Turning the residence of a Bonaparte into one's own private prison certainly showed nerve and a good deal of impudence, but Marianne did not think either Pilar or her accomplices lacked nerve. Moreover, as a hiding-place it was ideal. What policeman would be bold enough to start searching in the grounds of Napoleon's elder brother? Only Fouché would have been capable of it, but Fouché was far away and for the first time Marianne was genuinely sorry for it.

Lying there in the thick darkness to which her eyes had not yet grown fully accustomed, Marianne was conscious, amid these useless regrets, of a growing, insidious fear which she did her best to thrust away. She knew she must not think about the increased danger to Jason arising from her abduction. She had to keep a clear head and a cool brain if she was to fight at all, and the first thing was to get some sleep. Her aching body and her eyeballs parched with weariness told her that.

She snuggled further down into the hay and closed her eyes again, forcing herself, as she used to do when she was a little girl and frightened of something, to recall the prayers learned in baby-hood to drive away the fearful shadows of the night. But still her mind would keep returning to Jason and to the moments they had spent together, to the fierce pleasure, half-way between ecstasy and pain, which she had felt in his arms and he in hers, the sweetness of their kisses when their first desire was slaked, slaked only to return again with renewed fervour, and to the wrench of their final parting… They had had so little time. Free, they could have drowned whole days and nights in love, surfacing only to gaze at each other, dazzled by the glory of their happiness, then sinking back again beneath the waves.

So it was that despite her fetters, despite the peril hanging over her, Marianne was smiling when she fell asleep at last, like a tired but happy child, and her lips still shaped the words: 'Jason, I love you… I love you, love you, love you…'

CHAPTER NINE Concerning the Proper Use of Hay and What May be Found Therein

Daylight enabled Marianne to take a more exhaustive look at her restricted domain. The hayloft occupied the upper part of a steep-pitched roof-space and the length of the main beam and the impressive structure of timbers which formed the frame suggested that the whole must be of considerable size. At present it was rather more than three-quarters filled with huge bales of hay, too dry and brittle to have come from this year's harvest. The smallest spark would be enough to set the whole lot blazing and Marianne understood why she had not been left a light the night before.

It was possible to see fairly well during the daytime by reason of a long, narrow opening, like a loophole in the end wall, which could be seen to be very thick. There was also something like a small skylight in the roof itself but it was too small to offer the least chance of escape. Marianne thought she would be lucky to get her head through – and even that with a strong risk of getting stuck. Her chain was long enough to enable her to reach both the slit-window and the skylight. The glass was extremely dirty and dusty but she was nevertheless able to make out the tall slate roofs, noble chimneys and gilded weathervanes of a great house rising above some large trees. One of the towers was flying the standard of Spain and Marianne knew that her guess had been right. She was at Mortefontaine. Farther away and a little to the right, the smoke from a number of chimneys indicated the presence of a considerable village.

The slit, on the other hand, offered, besides a pleasant draught of cool morning air, a view of a broad, curving expanse of water dotted with small wooded islets already beginning to take on the golden tones of autumn. A light mist was rising from the water, which was opal-coloured in the early light, and the smooth trunks of the whispering poplar trees and the silvery boles of the birches with their crowns of pale gold were like the sentinels guarding some enchanted domain. All around lay wooded hills and gentle valleys, and Marianne, standing with her cheek pressed against the stone, thought to herself that she had rarely seen a lovelier, more idyllic landscape. If this was where Queen Julie lived, she understood why she seemed in no haste to leave it for the sombre magnificence of Madrid and the arid sierras. In this favoured spot, life must pass sweetly. Surely the nature which could bring violence and force into such a setting must be singularly warped and twisted.

The loft itself seemed to be at the top of a fairly high building, a barn perhaps, which also stood on an island, since they had taken a boat to reach it.

Apart from the mountain of hay, the furnishings of Marianne's prison were minimal. In the darkest corner were a metal basin, a chipped earthenware pitcher which probably contained water, a cake of dark soap, a couple of cleanish, though ragged dishcloths, apparently intended to do duty as towels, and a large bucket for slops. Still, the prisoner might think herself lucky that her captors had thought to provide her with any means of washing herself at all.

Round about midday, big Sanchez appeared, bringing her food which consisted of some cold meat, stale bread, a lump of cheese, so hard that it seemed unlikely to yield to attack by anything less than a butcher's cleaver, and some rather elderly fruit. But Marianne was hungry enough to set to with a fair appetite for even this unprepossessing repast. While she ate, Sanchez attended to the chores, emptying the bucket and refilling the water jug. Finally, he glared ferociously at the prisoner and pointing one knobbly finger at the food announced: 'No more today. Me back tomorrow.'

This was one way of warning her to make her provisions last, but all things considered it was rather good news than otherwise. At least Marianne was sure of seeing her gaoler only once a day, which left her more liberty to ponder on a means of escape. It still remained to be seen, though, whether Pilar or any of her associates meant to visit her at all.

The first step towards regaining her freedom was to rid herself of the chain, but in spite of all her efforts to drag the iron ring over her slender hand, including a lavish application of the dark soap to make it slide more easily, she only succeeded in chafing the flesh so much that by nightfall her hand was swollen to twice its normal size. The only hope of release lay in somehow opening the padlock which held the ring fast. But how, and what with?

This lowering realization produced a burst of tears which at least had the advantage of easing her pent-up nervous state and making her begin to look a little on the bright side again. It was now twenty-four hours since she and Crawfurd had been captured. Eleonora would certainly have alerted Talleyrand, if not the police. The two of them would surely make some efforts to trace them, and Talleyrand knew where Pilar had sought refuge. But would it occur to him that her disappearance was in any way connected with that silent, unsmiling young woman whose sole concern seemed to be to keep out of trouble and procure herself powerful protection? He would be more likely to think that Crawfurd had over-estimated the influence of his friends in the prison service and that the two incautious visitors had been recognized, arrested and incarcerated in their turn. Since Marianne had returned to Paris illegally it would be somewhat awkward to go to Savary and ask for her, while any approach to Napoleon was at once ruled out of court by his recent unfriendly note to the Prince of Benevento. There remained Jolival. But he was not due back for days yet and, even supposing he were to set out in search of her the very instant he returned, how long might it be before he came on any trace of her? Finally, even if he did follow her tracks to Mortefontaine, how could he possibly hope to obtain permission to search the Queen of Spain's grounds? Pilar's plans had indeed been well laid and efficiently carried out.

The logic of this train of thought soon overcame Marianne's temporary optimism and she fell asleep at last in a mood of deep depression.

Several days passed in this way, all desperately dull and very much alike. Sanchez appeared regularly to perform his duties as attendant, but he remained only a few minutes and Marianne had no wish for him to stay longer. He seemed to have nothing to say for himself and when she tried to talk to him she elicited nothing beyond a few unintelligible mumbles. Neither Pilar nor her accomplices bothered to come near her, a fact which made the prisoner feel in a curious way both relieved and abandoned.

As time passed, hope declined also. There was no way for her to escape unaided and she could not count on any assistance from her gaoler. At the same time, the workings of her fevered brain brought her little by little to a curious mental state of fatalistic resignation. She felt as if she were already removed from the world of the living, and was very sure that before long Jason would be so also. Then, on the day when Pilar, triumphant under the widow's weeds which would swathe her from head to foot, came to tell her that Jason was dead, there would be nothing left for her but to goad the vindictive Spanish woman to such a pitch of fury that she would not delay Marianne's own death longer. Her only hope now, in her prison cell, was in a better life hereafter.

Yet in spite of everything, although she herself was not fully aware of it, Marianne's busy brain was hard at work. There was something about that loft which was not quite right, although it had taken her some time to realize what it was. In fact, that something was the size of the huge bales of hay, some of which still retained their osier bindings.

Contemplating first the bales and then the exiguous dimensions of the door through which Sanchez was in the habit of coming, it was borne in on Marianne that the hay could not possibly have entered the loft that way and that there must therefore be another way in, probably through a trap-door in the floor.

It was true that even if she were to succeed in finding the trap-door she would not be much nearer to gaining her freedom. She still had the chain to deal with and the distance was clearly far too great to jump. But the search for it did provide, if not a hope precisely, at least a way of occupying her time, and so she set about clearing the hay from the floor within the limits of her chain, moving it to a heap on one side and then shifting the heap when the first section explored showed no sign of an opening.

The task was a long and painful one which raised a great deal of dust and made her very tired, but on the third day Marianne found two very large hinges set in the woodwork: irrefutable proof that the trap-door existed.

It was almost time for Sanchez to pay his daily visit and so, hurriedly covering up her find, Marianne went and flung herself down in her usual place in the straw and pretended to be asleep. The Spaniard performed his tasks as usual and then withdrew. Marianne devoured a hunk of bread and a piece of meat, drank a mug of water and returned to her excavations. Gradually, the whole trap-door was revealed. It was certainly a very large one, which explained the size of the hay bales, but the prisoner was unable to suppress a groan of dismay when she saw that her chain was too short to allow her to clear it completely.

Bitterly disappointed by this discovery, she dropped down on her knees in the hay and cried with despair at all her wasted labour. It made no difference to know that her chain still held her fast to the beam. She had cherished absurd hopes of that trap-door. Well, she knew now that it was there, and at the same time that it was useless to her… Her back ached and her hands were grimed with dirt and rubbed raw with splinters but all the same she began at last, mechanically, to cover up the floor again. It was then she felt it, something hard that moved under her fingers.

After some frantic fumbling in the hay she drew out a long, thin piece of metal, sharpened to a point at one end, and stared at it as if she could not believe her eyes. It was the tine of a pitchfork, which must have broken off when the hay was being stacked and been thought not worth recovering. A tool beyond her wildest dreams.

Marianne shut her eyes and offered up a silent prayer of thankfulness. With this, it must surely be possible to get the better of the padlock, when she recalled that Pilar had been afraid of what she might do with a mere hairpin.

She was on the point of going to work with her metal picklock there and then but at that moment she heard footsteps on the other side of the partition wall. Sanchez was coming back, but this time he was not alone. Marianne heard, as usual, the sound of the bales of straw being dragged aside and, hurriedly recovering the trapdoor, turned to hide her new tool by burying it deeply in the hay. Then, to make doubly sure, she sat down on the place where she had hidden it and began nonchalantly chewing a straw, conscious of a beating heart and hoping that the joy she felt did not show too clearly on her face. It was Pilar who entered.

Jason's wife was dressed all in black, although there was nothing out of the ordinary in this since she invariably dressed so or, when she did permit herself a colour, always accompanied it with a sombre veil or other dark accessories. On this occasion, however, she was wearing a bonnet with a deep poke from which fell a veil of very fine Chantilly lace. She walked up to Marianne, who had not turned at her entrance:

'Well, my dear? How do you feel after so many days of reflection?'

Determined not to utter a word, Marianne did not stir. Pilar continued, as if the interview were the most natural thing in the world:

'I hope you have everything you require. You look well enough, to be sure, and Sanchez tells me that your behaviour is perfectly quiet. However, I felt it right to come and bid you farewell…'

This time, it took all Marianne's self-control to keep herself from betraying the least start of surprise. Pilar was going away? It might be good news. Was it possible, after all, that today was her lucky day? She continued to chew on her straw as coolly as if Pilar had not existed. All she wanted now was for the woman to go away and let her get on with her preparations for an escape which had suddenly come within the bounds of possibility. Pilar, however, seemed in no hurry. She was taking a jasmine-scented handkerchief from her reticule and holding it to her nose, as if the smell in the loft offended her.

'You know, I suppose, that today is the first of October and that my – that Monsieur Beaufort's trial is to begin this afternoon. Consequently, I am on my way to Paris, where I am to appear tomorrow as a witness.'

Marianne's hand clenched on a fistful of hay. In spite of all her resolution, it was all she could do not to fling herself on this woman who stood there talking of her husband's trial as if it were the most agreeable social occasion. How she longed to plunge the metal tine with which she hoped to gain her freedom deep into that proud and vicious heart. But Sanchez was standing by the door, his arms folded on his chest and his eye alert for trouble. Marianne knew that she would stand little chance in those great hands.

Pilar, meanwhile, was silent, scanning her rival's face, no doubt for some sign of the effect of her words. But Marianne, still keeping her face averted, yawned ostentatiously and perfectly naturally, then turned her back altogether. She had tried the effects of this dumb insolence once before, on the night of her abduction, and she hoped that the results would be the same. It was. Pilar, with a half-checked exclamation of anger, swung round and made quickly for the door.

'Very well, have it as you please!' she said, her voice shaking with rage. 'We shall see how you maintain this fine show of indifference when I come to tell you that your lover's head has fallen to the guillotine and show you a handkerchief dyed with his blood!'

Marianne gritted her teeth and shut her eyes, praying with all her might that anger should not get the better of her will. 'Have pity, Lord, have pity! Make her be quiet… make her go away! Be merciful! Give me the strength not to curse her! Help me to hold my tongue! I hate her… oh, God, how I hate her! Help me…'

Her mind raced desperately to and fro in an effort to find the one, safe refuge. Never had she endured or imagined anything like the strain of listening while this sadistic creature ruthlessly paraded Jason's deadly peril before her. As if she needed to be reminded! As if the dreadful threat had not been haunting her for weeks! She was dying to tell this woman what she thought of her melodramatic speeches, but she was determined to remain true to her vow of silence.

Pilar, however, in her desire to see the effect of her cruel words upon her enemy, had stepped closer. Marianne raised a face of stone and then, quite deliberately, spat in Pilar's face. Pilar stopped short and for a moment it seemed to Marianne that she was going to attack her, so dreadfully contorted was her face, and she waited for the attack with a savage joy, preparing to rend that hateful face in pieces. Then Sanchez spoke heavily from the doorway:

'The Señora will spoil her dress. And the carriage is waiting.'

'I am coming. But tomorrow, Sanchez, and the day after, you will forget to bring her any food or drink. Give her nothing until I return!'

'I understand.'

This time, their departure was final, attended by a scornful shrug from their prisoner. Tomorrow, with God's help, Marianne would be far away.

All the same, she had sense enough not to move until she had heard the rattle of the chain which told her that the boat had left. Pilar was going away. She was going to Paris to be revenged and Sanchez would not be back for – for two or three days, at least, thanks to Pilar's decree that Marianne should go hungry.

When she was quite sure that she was really alone, Marianne got out her metal spike and set to work on the padlock, hoping that she would be able to pick the lock. If she failed, she would have to attack the beam to which the chain was made fast by a ring, which would have to be gouged out. Forcing herself to be calm so as to keep her hands from trembling, Marianne probed slowly and patiently with her pointed tine in the keyhole of the padlock. It was not easy and for some time she thought that she must fail, for although the chain was new, the padlock was not. For what seemed like an eternity she went on fiddling. Then, at long last, she heard the blessed click and gave a glad little cry. The padlock was open.

Opening the jaws of the manacle round her wrist and taking it off was the work of a moment and Marianne was free. She nursed her painfully swollen wrist for a moment and then flung herself at full length in the hay and rolled about in an ecstasy of joy at the relief of stretching her cramped muscles which had suffered from her restricted movement. She was hot when eventually she sat up, but the blood coursed swiftly through her veins and she was ready for action. Her next task was to open the trap-door and find a way of getting out of the barn while there was still a little light to see by, for autumn was drawing on and the daylight was fading earlier now.

She cleared the trap-door again quickly. It was soon visible, looking very large and stout. It was sure to be heavy but there was a long loop of rope, passed through a pair of rings, to raise it by. Marianne grasped hold of this, gathered all her strength and pulled. The trap resisted but, endowed with a nervous strength made ten times greater by the spur of freedom, she tensed her muscles, set her jaw and went on pulling, regardless of the coarse rope that bit into the soft skin of her palms. Slowly, slowly, the trap came up, rose to a vertical position and fell back with a soft thud on the hay, leaving a gaping hole in the floor. Marianne knelt on the edge and looked down.

Below her stretched a huge barn, so lofty that for a moment she felt faintly dizzy as she looked. She had hoped to find a ladder fixed below the trap-door, which would have made the descent easy; but there was nothing. To jump was out of the question, unless she wanted to risk broken bones.

Marianne's heart beat wildly as she sat back on her heels and cast about feverishly for a rope, or anything that might help her to get down. Unfortunately, the chain which had held her for so long was far too short and the osier bindings of the bales far too weak to bear her weight. But such was her determination to be free of her prison that at last the idea she needed came to her. She could throw down the hay heaped in the loft until it made a mattress thick enough for her to jump on to.

Hurriedly, for already it was growing dark, she began heaving the hay through the open trap, breaking open the osier bindings on the great bales with the tine as she did so. In seconds, the barn was filled with a whirling storm of hay and dust. Some of the bales set others rolling as they were moved and a dozen times Marianne was nearly swept down through the hole, but gradually the floor of the barn began to disappear beneath a mounting heap of hay.

When she thought the pile was high enough, Marianne, feeling as if her throat were on fire, drained the little water remaining in the pitcher and ate her last apple. Then she sat down on the edge of the trap-door and let herself go.

She landed, bouncing like a ball but quite unhurt, and tumbled quickly to the bottom of the heap. She was on the ground at last. The next thing to find out was whether the barn door would open or whether she would have to resort once again to her pitchfork tine which, to be on the safe side, she had thrown down before she jumped. But either because they trusted in the prison they had made ready for her or because they did not wish to alarm any of the peasants of the estate who might be suspicious if they found an all but empty barn carefully locked, Marianne's captors had left the door on the latch.

Cautiously pushing open one side of the big door, which creaked only a very little, Marianne poked her head out and took a careful glance around. As far as she could see in what was now almost total darkness, there was not a soul about, although the great house, buried in the distant trees beyond the lake which stretched almost at her feet, was ablaze with light, to judge from the number of bright sparks twinkling through the intervening vegetation. At the same time, Marianne became aware that it was raining, something she had not perceived before amid the other preoccupations of the day.

It was also very much colder than it had been inside the barn. October had come and the lovely sunshine which had persisted all through September had given way to more wintry weather. Marianne shivered in her cotton dress, but she knew she had to get away from where she was as soon as possible and so, plucking up her courage, she darted out and began a tour of inspection. As she had guessed, the barn was on an island, and a fairly large one at that, and she began to make her way along the shore in search of a boat. It did not take long to discover that apart from the barn itself and a few trees and bushes, there was absolutely nothing at all on the island, least of all a boat.

'I shall have to swim,' she told herself with a shiver. 'The thing to do is to find the narrowest place and hope it is also the side farthest from the house.'

Her first thought had been to go boldly up to the house, tell them who she was and throw herself on Queen Julie's mercy, letting the police claim her later if they would. Pilar had gone to Paris. It might prove the wisest thing to do in the long run.

Then she remembered that most of her kidnappers probably belonged to the royal household and that it would be the easiest thing in the world for them to get her into their power again on pretence of caring for her safety, and next time there would be no hope of escape. Besides, in her present filthy state, with her torn and grubby dress, she would certainly be taken for a lunatic and sent packing by the servants without being allowed so much as a glimpse of the queen. The best course was clearly to go to Paris in her own way, attracting no attention, and keeping out of the way of such persons as law officers and others whose suspicions might be aroused by her vagabond appearance, however difficult that might prove.

Accepting the fact that if she wanted to get off her island she would have to swim for it, Marianne selected her spot with care, where the crossing looked easiest, then, removing her clothes without further hesitation, she made them into a bundle, tied it with her sash and fastened the bundle on top of her head.

Her dress was wet already from the rain but, even so, it would be drier like this than after a session in the water. She knew, too, how awkward it could be trying to swim in one's clothes. In any case, the place was so deserted and the darkness by now so thick that she felt there was very little risk of anyone's surprising her in her unconventional attire, and in a very few seconds after removing her clothes she was deep among the reeds which encircled the island, pushing her way through the fleshy tangle of water-lily stems. Her feet sank deeply into a sticky mud which made her shudder but the bottom shelved steeply almost at once and she was soon out of her depth. Launching herself out into the lake she began to swim quietly, making as little noise as possible. The water was cold but not as cold as it had seemed when she first entered it and the feel of it slipping past her naked body was unexpectedly pleasant after so many days in the dusty loft.

It was a long time since Marianne had done any swimming, but her legs and arms performed as if by instinct the easy, flowing movements which old Dobs had taught her. The only really unpleasant thing about this unforeseen exercise was the stagnant smell of the lake itself and the fleeting, underwater contacts with water snakes, which sent a creeping horror over her bare skin. The crossing was not a long one, however, and very soon she felt her feet touch on a hard, sandy bottom. The banks here were fairly high and lined with tall trees, but by grabbing at the thick, flat, water-lily leaves and then at the low branches of a willow,

Marianne managed to haul herself dripping on to the bank. At the top, she scrambled quickly into her damp clothes, pulled on her shoes and set off hopefully through the wood.

It was too dark for her to be able to get much idea of her direction but in any case her principal object was to put as much distance between herself and the house as possible. The domain was so large and the woods so wild and overgrown with bushes and brambles which tore at her in her blind progress that she had some hopes at least that she would not be obliged to climb a wall.

By dint of walking straight ahead, now on a spongy carpet of leaves, now through the occasional muddy clearing, she came at last to a path. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and she was able to make better progress, avoiding the more painful obstacles. It was still raining but it was drier under the trees than out in the open ground. Marianne walked for a long time without being any too clear where she was going but keeping a look out for some charcoal burner's hut where she might shelter and rest for a little while. She was frozen to the marrow and desperately tired. In the end she found a large, overhanging rock with a deep, dry hollow at its base which could scarcely have been dignified by the name of a cave. It was a mean enough shelter but Marianne crept into it and, curled up, catlike, in the dead leaves, dropped instantly asleep.

She woke with a start to feel something cold and wet licking her face and found herself staring into the slobbering jaws of a large pointer, who was sniffing at her interestedly. Behind the dog was a pair of legs in canvas leggings and stout, hobnailed boots. Following them upwards, Marianne saw that they belonged to a youth with an ancient fowling piece over his shoulder who was standing looking at her in some perplexity. It was broad daylight and the rain had stopped.

Seeing that the sleeper was awake, the youth called off his dog:

'Here, Briquet! Drop it!'

Obediently, the dog withdrew and sat down by his master, who bent forward and held out his hand to Marianne.

'Good morning,' he said pleasantly. 'I'm glad you're awake. When Briquet found you I thought at first—' He broke off in some embarrassment and it was Marianne who completed the sentence for him.

'That I was dead? Did I look so dreadful?'

'You were so pale.'

'I'm cold.'

This was true. In the sharp morning air, Marianne was shaking like a leaf and the bruises that showed on her pinched arms did nothing to enhance her sorry appearance. The boy hastily removed the short woollen cloak he wore over his own shoulders and put it round Marianne's.

'Come to my house, my grandmother will take care of you. It's quite close – the first roof you can see through the trees, at the edge of the village.'

Marianne saw that she had in fact almost reached the end of the wood and that the smoking chimneys of a village lay only a little way ahead. She felt so ill that she was glad to accept her new friend's offer, merely asking, before she followed him: 'What village is that?'

'Loisy. You don't come from these parts?'

'Is it – is it very far from Mortefontaine?'

'Oh no! Two or three miles east… that's all.'

Was that all? Marianne found it hard to conceal her disappointment. She seemed to have walked so far that she had hoped to have come much farther. Most probably, in her ignorance of the district, she had been walking in circles. She turned her head and looked at her companion. He reminded her a little of Gracchus-Hannibal Pioche. He had the same straw-coloured hair and the same steady blue eyes, but his face was rather thinner and his limbs a good deal longer. On the whole, she was pleased with what she saw and made up her mind to trust him:

'I must tell you I have just escaped from the chateau of Mortefontaine where some people belonging to the Queen of Spain's court have been keeping me prisoner in a barn. But I give you my word I am no criminal, I have not stolen anything—'

The lad grinned at her cheerfully.

'You don't look like it. And if you had done anything like that, they would have put you in prison, not locked you up in a barn! Come on, you can tell it all to my grannie. She's ever so fond of stories.'

As they went along, Marianne learned that her new friend was called Jacques Cochu, that he owned a patch of land in the nearby village and lived all alone with his grandmother at present, but that he was to be married in a few days' time.

'I'd have waited until spring, myself,' he confided, 'but my grannie wants me to be married before then so I shan't be conscripted. I've been lucky so far because the Emperor hasn't raised any troops this year on account of his marriage. So I'm getting married to Etiennette.'

'Don't you want to go and fight?' Marianne asked, a trifle cast down. Her lively imagination had already decked her saviour out in her own, personal colours. Jacques grinned disarmingly:

'Well, I shouldn't mind it. When I hear the old 'uns talk about Valmy and Italy it fair makes my legs itch. Only, if I go, who will look after the farm? And what would become of my grannie – and Etiennette, too, because her parents are both dead since last year. So I've got to stay.'

'Of course,' Marianne said gently. 'You are quite right. Hurry up and get married and be very, very happy!'

Still talking, they came to a small, spotlessly clean farmhouse in the doorway of which a small, very upright old woman stood waiting for them, her arms folded over her woollen shawl, and looking by no means best pleased at the sight of her grandson coming home in the company of a strange, ragged girl. But when Jacques had given her a rapid account of their meeting and of how he had brought Marianne home with him to be warmed and fed, the ready hospitality of the Valois region was instantly forthcoming. The old woman settled her by the fire with a big bowl of hot soup, cut her a large slice of bread and a thick wedge of bacon, and then began to hunt out some dry clothes while Marianne told her story – or rather the edited version of it which she deemed suitable for the occasion. It went very much against the grain with her to lie to these kind people who had welcomed her with such warmth and generosity but she could not see herself reeling off a list of her pompous Italian titles and so for the present it seemed best to become once again Marianne Mallerousse.

'My uncle was killed very recently in the Emperor's service,' she told her new friends, 'and I was kidnapped by his murderers so that I should not betray them. But I must get back to Paris as fast as I can. I want to avenge my – my uncle, and I have important information to give.'

She wondered for a moment if even this watered-down version of her story might not be coming it rather too strong, but neither Madame Cochu nor Jacques appeared in the least surprised. The old woman, indeed, was already nodding agreement:

'I've never thought much of all those sallow-faced foreign folk we've had roaming about here ever since the Emperor made his brother King of Spain. It was a deal more peaceful before. Not that Joseph's a bad man. Always a kind word and very open-handed! He was well enough liked in these parts and folks were sorry to see him go off to all those savages. As for you, child, we'll do what we can to help you get back home again without a stir.'

'But,' Jacques broke in, 'what's wrong with going straight to the police?'

That was a nasty one and Marianne had to think very quickly indeed in order to make her answer appear sufficiently natural.

'I mean to,' she said earnestly. 'But I must see the minister himself. The people who took me prisoner are members of Queen Julie's court and they have great influence. They have set it about that I was responsible for my uncle's death. There is a search for me, but I must be able to produce proof, and the proof I have is in Paris.'

Having produced this explanation, she permitted herself a faint sigh of relief, hoping that she had been adequately convincing. Jacques and his grandmother had withdrawn to the other end of the kitchen and were holding a whispered colloquy which, though animated while it lasted, was over in a few seconds. Jacques came back to Marianne.

'The best thing,' he said, 'is for you to stay here for a bit and rest. You will be quite safe here. Then, this afternoon I'll take you into Dammartin-en-Goele, to my Uncle Cochu. He's the mayor, and he sends a cart of cabbages and turnips to Paris regularly, every three days. There's one going in the morning. Dressed like a peasant girl, you can go back to Paris without being afraid of the police or of the people who kidnapped you. You'll be there by tomorrow night.'

'Tomorrow night? Marianne made a mental calculation. Jason's trial had begun the day before, it was probably going on at that very moment, while she stayed talking with these good people. Time was precious.

'I suppose,' she objected timidly, 'it isn't possible to be there any sooner? I am in such a dreadful hurry.'

'Sooner? How? Of course, there is the diligence from Soissons – you might catch that in Dammartin tomorrow… but you'd not gain more than a few hours. And you'd not be nearly so safe.'

That was true enough. Naturally, she wished that she could get a horse, but how and where from? She was completely penniless, having left the contents of her purse in Ducatel's hands at the prison. Common sense told her the sensible thing was to accept. The most important thing was to get back and this way she might do so without risk of recapture. It was better to come late than not at all and a trial of such importance was bound to last for several days. In the end, she gave her hosts a grateful smile.

'I agree,' she said, 'and I thank you with all my heart. I hope I may be able to prove my gratitude one day!'

'Don't talk such nonsense,' the grandmother told her gruffly. 'If poor folks don't give one another a hand there's not much good them calling themselves Christians! As for being grateful – well, that's something to keep in your heart. Now you just come and lie down for a bit. There's not much comfort you'll have had sleeping in that nasty wet wood. And while you're having a nap I'll go and see Etiennette, Jacques's promised wife, and borrow a bodice and petticoat from her. The pair of you are much of a size.'

Late that afternoon, dressed in a coarse red woollen skirt and black bodice and bundled up in a black woollen shawl given her by generous Madame Cochu, her feet thrust into a pair of sabots several sizes too large for her and her head enveloped in a huge linen coif, Marianne got up behind Jacques on the crupper of the big cart-horse, used both for riding and on the farm. In front were two big panniers of late apples, fastened to the horse's collar.

It was quite dark when they reached Dammartin, a walled town on a hill, and Jacques handed Marianne into the care of his great-uncle, Pierre Cochu, a fine-looking old man, like an ancient, knotted vine, who took her in with the noble generosity common to tillers of the soil and asked no awkward questions. She was introduced as a cousin of Etiennette's who wanted to go to Paris to work as a laundress in the establishment of a distant relative. Consequently, when the time came for her to say good-bye to Jacques no one thought it anything but perfectly natural that she should throw her arms round his neck and kiss him on both cheeks. But no one there could guess the gratitude which went into that gesture, or why Jacques should have grown so red at being the recipient of this mark of affection. He gave a nervous laugh to hide his embarrassment and said stoutly:

'We'll meet again very soon, Cousin Marie. When we're married, Etiennette and I, we'll come and visit you in Paris. We'll enjoy that…'

'And so will I, Jacques! Tell Etiennette that I shall not forget you, any of you.'

She felt a pang at parting from him. Although she had met him and his grandmother so short a time before, they had been so kind and friendly to her that Marianne felt as if she had always known them. They were suddenly very dear to her and she promised herself that if better times ever came for her she would show them that they had not helped one who was ungrateful. All the same, Jacques was hardly out of sight before Marianne's thoughts had turned once again to their constant obsession with Jason's fate, which was being decided even then, as she was making such efforts to be near him.

After a brief night's rest, spent comfortably enough in a tiny chamber smelling sweetly of wax and citronella, Marianne found herself as day was breaking seated on the driver's seat of a big wagon full of cabbages beside a taciturn fellow who did not utter as much as ten words in the whole course of the journey. They lumbered away peacefully along the road to Paris, far too peacefully, indeed, for Marianne, who nearly died of impatience a hundred times during the interminable drive.

Luckily, it was not raining. The weather was cold but dry. The way was flat and monotonous but Marianne did not succeed in imitating her companion, who dozed a good part of the time, much to the annoyance of his passenger. Whenever she saw his big head nodding, it was all Marianne could do to restrain herself from seizing the reins and setting the whole equipage galloping madly down the endless highway, at the risk of losing all the cabbages. But that would have been a poor return to her friends for all their kindness, so she possessed herself in patience.

All the same, when the spires of Paris appeared at last through the autumnal mists she very nearly shouted for joy and when the wagon reached the village of La Villette and crossed over the site of the unfinished canal of St Denis she had to stop herself jumping down from her seat and running ahead, but she knew it was best to keep up the pretence to the end.

The powerful smell emanating from the city's refuse dump, near which they were obliged to pass, seemed to jerk the driver out of his doze. He opened first one eye, then the second, then turned his head to look at Marianne, but so slowly that Marianne wondered if he were animated by some form of very slow clockwork.

'Tha coozen t'laundress,' he asked 'wheer dost a live? T'mester said t'set thee doon reet by, but ahm f't'market.'

Marianne had had plenty of time on that endless drive to think about what she meant to do when she eventually reached Paris. A return to Crawfurd's house was out of the question and it could prove equally perilous to make for her own. At this point it had occurred to her that by now Fortunée Hamelin might have returned home from Aix-la-Chapelle. The summer season there was over, surely she would be back in her beloved Paris… unless she had sacrificed that love in favour of her other ruling passion for Casimir de Montrond who was officially under open arrest in the Flemish town of Anvers. If that proved to be the case, Marianne decided, she would wait until it was quite dark and then try and slip quietly into her own house in the rue de Lille. So she answered the man: 'She lives quite near the Barrière des Porcherons.' The yokel's dull eye brightened fleetingly: 'T'beant mooch aht't'road. Ah'll set thee doon thar than.' Upon which decisive utterance he appeared to fall asleep again, while ahead of them, by the side of a broad expanse of fresh water, there loomed up Ledoux's elegant rotunda and the guingettes with their red trellises of the Barrière de la Villette.

Safe in her disguise, Marianne did not flinch when the guards made their routine check. Then they were off again, following the wall of the Fermiers Généraux as far as the Barrière de la Chapelle, after which the wagon turned into the Faubourg St Denis. When Marianne's destination was reached they parted without a word spoken and she set out, shaking uncontrollably with the excitement of finding herself in Paris once more, to run to the rue de la Tour d'Auvergne as if her very life depended on it.

It was something of an ordeal because the streets led steeply uphill all the way to the village of Montmartre. To make running easier she had taken off the heavy sabots, which were too big for her and chafed her unaccustomed feet. Consequently, by the time she came to the white house which always in the past offered her such a warm welcome, she was barefoot, red-faced, tousled and panting, but her only fear was that she might find the shutters closed and the house wearing the dismal, unfriendly look common to all houses when the people who live there are away. No, the shutters were open, the chimneys smoking and a vase of flowers could be seen through the hall window.

But when Marianne entered the gate and made to cross the courtyard to the front door, she saw the gatekeeper come running out after her as fast as a pair of very short legs would carry him, holding his arms out wide as if to block her path. With a sinking heart she saw that he was a new man, one she had not seen before.

'Here! You there, girl! Where d'you think you're going?'

Marianne stopped and waited for him, so that he all but cannoned into her.

'To see Madame Hamelin,' she said coolly. 'She is expecting me.'

'Madame does not receive persons of your kind. Besides, she's not at home. Be off with you!'

He was pulling at her arm, trying to drag her away but Marianne shook him off:

'If she is not at home, then fetch Jonas to me. I suppose he is at home?'

'Fetch him to such a hussy as you? Tell me what name I should say if you want me to go, then.'

Marianne hesitated fractionally, but Jonas was a friend and he was used to seeing her in unexpected guises:

'Say: Mademoiselle Marianne.'

'Marianne what?'

'Never you mind. Go and bring him to me at once and take care Jonas is not angry with you for keeping me waiting.'

The gatekeeper departed unwillingly for the house, mumbling under his breath as he went various uncomplimentary things about brazen hussies forcing their way into honest folks' houses. Not many seconds later, Jonas, Fortunée's major-domo, literally burst out of the glazed front door, his good-humoured black face split in two by an enormous smile of welcome:

'Mademoiselle Ma'anne! Mademoiselle Ma'anne! It is you!… Come you inside dis minute! My lord, but what you doin' dressed like dat?'

Marianne laughed, feeling her spirits revive miraculously at the warmth of this familiar welcome. Here, at last, she had found a safe harbour.

'Poor Jonas! Nine times out of ten I seem to arrive on the doorstep looking like a complete ragamuffin. Madame is out?'

'Yes, but she's coming back soon. You come inside and rest yourself while you wait.'

Dismissing the gatekeeper with an imperious wave of his hand, Jonas led Marianne straight into the house, telling her as they went of the anxiety his mistress had been in on her account since her return from Aix.

'She thinks you' dead! When Monseigneur de Benevento tell her you disappeared, I thought she would run mad, I give you my word… Listen! Here she comes now.'

In fact, hardly had Jonas shut the door before Fortunée's brougham entered the courtyard, described a perfect circle round the fountain and drew up at the foot of the steps. Fortunée got out but she looked very grave and Marianne saw that for the first time since she had known her, her friend was dressed in a plain walking dress of a severe dark purple colour. Also unusual for her was an almost total absence of paint on her face and as her veil was drawn up, Marianne could see by her red eyes that she had been crying. But already Jonas had hurried out to her, calling:

'Madame Fortunée! Mademoiselle Ma'anne is here! See!'

Madame Hamelin looked up and a light of joy sprang into her lack-lustre eyes. Without a word she ran up the steps and flung herself into her friend's arms, hugging her and crying at the same time. Marianne had never seen the light-hearted Creole in such a state and while she returned the embrace with equal fervour she pleaded in an undertone:

'Fortunée, for God's sake, tell me what is the matter! Were you truly so afraid for me?'

Fortunée freed herself quickly and stood for a moment holding Marianne at arms' length, her hands resting on the girl's shoulders while she gazed deep into her eyes with such an expression of compassion that a cold trickle of fear ran through Marianne's veins, leaving her unable to speak.

'Marianne, I have just come from the court,' Madame Hamelin said at last in the gentlest possible voice. 'It is all over.'

'What – what do you mean?'

'Jason Beaufort was sentenced to death an hour ago.'

Marianne staggered as if she had been shot. But after so many days' unconscious expectation of this very thing, she was to some extent prepared, without knowing it, so that the wound had begun to heal over almost as soon as it was made. She had known in her heart that one day she would have to listen to those dreadful words and, as the human body prepares secretly to fight for life against the disease it harbours, so her mind had armed itself against the suffering to come. The danger was too close now, there was no time for weakness, no time for tears or terror.

Fortunée had extended her arms in an automatic gesture, expecting Marianne to fall down in a faint, but she let them drop slowly to her sides as she stared in amazement at the unknown woman who looked back at her out of a face which had turned suddenly to stone. Marianne spoke in a voice of ice:

'Where is the Emperor? At St Cloud?'

'No. The whole court is at Fontainebleau, for the hunting. What are you going to do? You won't—'

'Oh yes I shall. That is precisely what I shall do. Do you think I care for anything in this world if Jason is not in it? I swore by my mother's memory that if they killed him I should stab myself at the foot of the scaffold. What are Napoleon's rages to me? He shall listen to me, whether he likes it or not, whether it suits him or not! Afterwards, he may do to me what he likes. As if it mattered!'

'Don't say that!' Fortunée begged her, crossing herself hurriedly, as if to avert an evil fate. 'Think of all of us who love you.'

'I am thinking of the man I love, and without whom I will not live! There is only one thing I ask of you, Fortunée. Lend me a chaise and some clothes, and a little money, and tell me where I can go in Fontainebleau to avoid being arrested before I have seen the Emperor. You know the place, I think. If you will do this for me, I will bless you to my dying day—'

'Stop!' Fortunée cried distractedly. 'Will you stop talking about dying! Lend you money, my chaise – what are you thinking of?'

'Fortunée!' Marianne protested in accents of hurt surprise, but before she could say more her friend's arm was folded lovingly about her waist and Fortunée was leading her upstairs, murmuring affectionately in her ear:

'We'll go together, of course, you silly thing. I have a house there, a little retreat of my own by the river, and I know every inch of the forest. We'll find that useful if you don't succeed in getting into the chateau – much as Napoleon hates to have his hunting interrupted. But if that is the only way…'

'I can't let you, Fortunée! You may be dreadfully compromised… even banished…'

'Well, if I am, I'll go and join Montrond at Anvers and we'll have a lovely time together! Come, my love. I must say I shan't be sorry to learn how the Emperor came to allow such a sentence to be passed on such an extraordinarily attractive man – to say nothing of one who could not possibly have committed the crimes they have accused him of! A foul murder? Coining? A man with his proud bearing, and those eyes, like a sea-eagle's? It's perfectly absurd!…

Jonas! Tell my woman to prepare a bath for Mademoiselle Marianne at once, and some clean clothes. We'll have a good meal in half an hour and a post-chaise at the door half an hour after that. Is that understood? Off with you, then.'

The major-domo departed speedily in the direction of the stairs, calling loudly for Mademoiselle Clementine as he went, and Fortunée, following more sedately with Marianne, said confidentially:

'Now, darling, we have plenty of time so you can tell me all about it. Where have you been…?'

CHAPTER TEN The Imperial Hunt

Madame Hamelin reined in her mount beside the worn stone cross, all overgrown with lichens, which stood in the shadow of a broad oak tree at a place where four ways met.

'This is the cross of Souvray,' she said, pointing at the stone with her whip. 'It will be the perfect spot to wait until the hunt begins. I know there is to be a luncheon at the Carrefour de Recloses, about a mile and a half from here, but I do not know which direction the hunt will take.'

As she spoke, she dismounted and, hitching her horse to the trunk of a tall Scots pine, gathered up the long skirts of her leaf-brown habit and strolled leisurely back to seat herself on the steps below the old cross, while Marianne, following her example, tied her own horse to the same tree and joined her friend on the steps.

The cross-roads was quite deserted. The only sounds were the trickle of water somewhere on the other side of a thicket and the rapid scampering feet of a startled hare on the deep, rustling carpet of fallen leaves. A little way to the south, however, the woods were alive with the unmistakable hum of a crowd of people enjoying themselves, punctuated by noises of hound and horn and distant carriages.

'I've never seen an imperial hunt before,' Marianne said, seating herself and settling the ample folds of her dark green habit round her legs. 'What happens?'

'Oh, it's quite simple. All the court is supposed to take part, but in point of fact the Emperor hunts alone, except for his equerry-in-chief General Nansouty, the master of the hunt Monsieur d'Hannecourt, a single huntsman and his Mameluke servant Rustan, who goes with him everywhere. Before Savary was chief of police, he used to be there as well, but now he is obliged to watch over his master at a rather greater distance. As to the formalities-well, everyone, men and women, including the Emperor, set out from the chateau in a procession of carriages. They drive to a point which has been decided on beforehand and there is a splendid collation. When that is over, the court either hangs about doing nothing in particular, except digest their luncheon, or else goes quietly home, and Napoleon hunts. That is all there is to it!'

'I never knew he was so fond of hunting. He never mentioned it…'

Fortunée laughed. 'My dear child, our Emperor is a man with a prodigious talent for creating the right atmosphere, and doing what he feels goes with the part. Privately, he has no great fondness for hunting, very largely because he is an indifferent horseman, and if his horses were not always very well trained he would certainly have a respectable number of falls to his credit. However, he believes that a sovereign of France is obliged to hunt. French kings have always hunted madly – Capets, Valois, Bourbons, were all devoted to the chase. I dare say he feels he owes it to his uncle Louis XVI! And you need not look so downcast about it, either. It gives you all the better chance of finding him more or less alone.'

For Fortunée's sake, Marianne summoned up a wan smile but the fear which clutched at her heart was too great to allow her any pleasure in her friend's witticisms. Jason's life would depend on what took place that afternoon and in the three days since she had arrived at La Madeleine, Fortunée's charming rural retreat, this thought had never left her, day or night.

Almost as soon as they arrived, in fact, Madame Hamelin had hastened to the palace to see Duroc and try, through him, to obtain an audience with the Emperor. The ever-helpful Duc de Frioul had communicated the request to his master but Napoleon had made it known that he did not desire to see Madame Hamelin, intimating that she had better confine herself for the present to her own delightful property and not venture to appear at court. Marianne's heart sank when she heard this.

'Oh, my poor Fortunée! You are involved in my disgrace! He would not see you because he knows you are my friend.'

'Well, if he does it's because he threw us together. Actually, though, I think it is rather my friendship with Josephine which makes him keep me at a distance. They say her new Danubian majesty is horribly jealous of anything even remotely connected with our own dear Empress. Indeed, I never really thought Napoleon would see me – in fact I expected it so little that I went to the trouble of making a few inquiries on my own account. The day after tomorrow the Emperor goes hunting. You may come upon him at some time during that day – and although he may be a little angry at first, I shall be very much surprised if he won't listen to you.'

'He must listen to me! Even if I have to throw myself under his horse's hooves!'

'Which would be a great piece of folly! With his clumsiness, he'd more than likely ride right over you. And your looks, my dear, are still quite your best weapon.'

It was decided, therefore, and Marianne was left to count the hours and minutes that must elapse before their ride into the forest of Fontainebleau. Yet now, as the fatal moment drew near, her eagerness to be up and doing was tempered by nebulous fears. She knew Napoleon's temper of old. What if he refused to let her speak, sent her away without so much as listening to what she had to say?

Fortunée had taken some chocolate from her pocket and was offering it to Marianne:

'Here. You'll need all your strength and it's none too warm here in the woods. But the luncheon can't go on for ever.'

A little biting wind had got up, sweeping the dead leaves over the surface of the Route Ronde which had been made in the days of Louis XIV to encircle Fontainebleau and a large portion of the forest for the vehicles following the hunt. Clouds raced across a sky more pale grey than blue, just failing to keep up with a dark mass of swallows on their way to find the sun. Marianne's throat tightened as she watched the birds, flying so fast and free, thinking of Jason, a sea bird held basely in a cage until such time as the dull hand of a slavish, so-called justice should strike him down, not letting him see the vast, pure ocean again, even for one day.

A horn blowing deep in the forest dragged her from her gloomy thoughts. She had not hunted all her life without knowing the signs that the hunt was moving off. She jumped to her feet, automatically smoothing out the folds of her riding dress.

'Hurry,' she cried. They're away!'

'Not so fast,' Fortunée said easily. We need to know the direction first.'

The two of them stood for a moment listening, trying to disentangle the confusing echoes of hounds and horns; then Madame Hamelin beamed triumphantly at her friend:

'Excellent! They are going towards the Haute Borne – we shall be able to cut across the line! Come on! I'll show you the way and then drop behind while you go on alone – since His Majesty would rather not see me! Ready?'

With one accord, the two young women sprang into the saddle. Their whips cracked and they were off at a full gallop through the forest, guided by the sound of the horn. At first they followed a cross-ride with heavy cover on either side, bending low over their horses' necks to avoid overhanging branches. The going was rough, over stony ground which climbed steeply from time to time only to descend as steeply into deep valley-bottoms thick with heather and high rusty-golden bracken, but both were excellent horsewomen, Marianne especially, and they were able to avoid the many obstacles in their path without slackening their pace. In the normal way, Marianne would have enjoyed enormously the hectic ride through one of the finest forests in Europe, but today the stakes were too high and the risk of failure too tragic. Galloping in a desperate bid to save Jason Beaufort's life, she knew beyond all doubt that her own life, too, hung on the outcome.

They rode for a long time. The quarry seemed to be doubling endlessly and it was nearly an hour before they caught sight of the flash of white between the bare trees that told them the pack was in full cry. Hounds were running fast, giving tongue as they ran. The horn calls had already told Marianne long before this that the quarry was a boar and with her nerves in their present raw state she was glad of it. Deer-hunting had never given her any pleasure: the grace and beauty of the creatures moved her too deeply.

Fortunée had reined to a halt and now her voice came, borne on the wind:

'There they are – you go on alone…'

Marianne could see the boar now, crashing through the undergrowth like a great, black, bristly cannon ball, the pack hard on his heels. After them came two red-jacketed huntsmen, both riding greys, blowing for all they were worth. The Emperor could not be far away. She dug in her heels and shot forward, burst through a thicket, jumped a fallen tree trunk and a tangled brake – and landed almost plump on top of Napoleon, who was also going full-tilt.

Both mounts reared wildly to avoid a collision but whereas Marianne, perfect mistress of herself and her horse, remained easily in the saddle, the Emperor of the French, caught off balance, parted company with his stirrups and took a flying toss into the leafy mould.

'Ten thousand thunders! What half-witted—'

But Marianne was already on her knees beside him, overcome with horror at what she had done:

'It's me, Sire! Only me! Oh, in heaven's name, forgive me! I did not mean – oh, good God! You are not hurt?'

Napoleon glared at her and, getting quickly to his feet, snatched from Marianne's hands the hat which he had lost in his fall and which she had picked up.

'I was under the impression, Madame,' he said, in such arctic tones that Marianne felt an involuntary shiver down her spine, 'that I had banished you. What are you doing here?'

She gazed up at him imploringly. It had not even occurred to her to get to her feet.

'I had to see you, Sire! I had to speak to you, at all costs—'

'Even the cost of my back, it would seem,' Napoleon said grimly, adding, with a touch of impatience: 'Well, get up, get up! The appearance we present is already sufficiently ridiculous – and we are not alone.'

They were not. Even as he spoke, three men, whom the Emperor must have outdistanced in the chase, came thundering up to them. The first to arrive wore the splendid uniform of a general of hussars, the second was in the green suit of the imperial huntsmen and the third, the only one of the three known to Marianne, was the Mameluke, Rustan. The general had dismounted in an instant.

'Sire!' he exclaimed in anxious tones. 'Are you all right?'

But it was Marianne who answered, smiling engagingly: 'It is I, General, who do not deserve to be. My horse bolted with me and I reached here at the same moment as His Majesty. Our horses reared and I was thrown. The Emperor was good enough to come to my assistance, for which I am most grateful.'

As she uttered this piece of diplomatic prevarication she saw Napoleon's jaw lose something of its set look and the glare go out of his eye.

'It was nothing,' he remarked, carelessly shaking a dead leaf or two from the skirts of his grey redingote. 'Say no more. But enough of this day's sport. I am tired of it. It has been a fruitless day. Call off your huntsmen and your hounds, Monsieur d'Hannecourt. We are going back to the chateau. You, Madame,' he turned to Marianne, 'will follow us. I wish to speak with you. Rustan will take you in by way of the English Garden.'

'But, Sire, I am not alone in the forest. A friend—'

A gleam appeared in Napoleon's blue-grey eyes, not of anger this time but amusement:

'I see. Then you had better collect your friend, Madame, before you come. Some people,' he added, with an inflection which told Marianne that he was under no illusions as to that friend's identity, 'would appear remarkably hard to lose.'

Marianne bowed quickly and, placing her booted foot in General Nansouty's gallantly proffered hands, vaulted into the saddle with a neatness that made the hussar's lips twitch irrepressibly. He was too experienced a horseman to be taken in by Marianne's tactful story. If anyone had taken a header, it was certainly not this girl. But Nansouty was a man of the world and so he merely smiled.

It did not take Marianne many minutes to discover Fortunée or many more to put her in possession of the facts about what had taken place and the new hope which had so unexpectedly resulted for Marianne.

'He will see you, that is the main thing,' Madame Hamelin said. 'I dare say he'll give you one of his scolds, but what matters is if he listens to you. You may win yet.'

Then, wasting no more time, the two women gave their horses their heads and hurtled after the Emperor and his suite.

At the first cross-roads, they found Rustan waiting for them underneath a pine tree, looking like some rigid equestrian statue of a sultan. Making a sign to them to follow, he cantered off in the direction of the chateau, making a slight detour on the way so as to avoid running his charges into the rest of the court.

Half an hour later, Marianne was inside the palace of Fontainebleau, where she had begun to despair of ever being. She had seen no one beyond a few servants on her way from the English Garden, past the Carp Pool and through the Fountain Court. Then, leaving Fortunée in a small, deserted salon on the ground floor, Rustan had thrown open the door into a large room giving on to the garden and, bowing, indicated a chair. Once again, Marianne found herself in Napoleon's private office. It was the fourth she had seen but although this one had modern furniture and decorations in the style of Louis XVI, the usual litter of papers, maps, personal belongings and the ubiquitous red morocco files made it seem instantly familiar. There was the open snuff-box, the goose quill flung down at random, the big map unrolled on the desk and the hat left carelessly on a bracket table, just as at the Tuileries and St Cloud and the Trianon. To Marianne, it was reassuring. The Emperor's powerful personality stamped all his surroundings with his own identity, and feeling slightly more at home now and in a more hopeful frame of mind, she settled down to await his coming.

When he did come, it was in his usual style: a quick step on the tiled floor of the corridor, slam of the door, a rapid march across the room, hands behind back, pause by the big desk with a swift, appreciative eye for the ceremonial court curtsy, then directly into the subject on hand:

'Well, Madame? No doubt you had excellent reasons for pursuing me here importunately in direct defiance of my commands?'

The tone, aggressive and deliberately offensive, would, in the normal way, have provoked Marianne to an equally stinging reply. But she knew that if she wanted to save Jason she must cast off her pride and humble herself to the dust, and with all the more reason now that this same ruler had not long ago bitten the dust himself on her account.

'Sire,' she said with gentle dignity, 'this is the first time Your Majesty has accused me of being importunate. Have you forgotten that I am your loyal, obedient subject?'

'Loyal, I hope. Obedient, by no means! You are a perfect menace, Madame, and if I did not take good care you would disrupt the whole of my Grand Army altogether. If they're not fighting duels over you, they're killing people for you.'

'That's not true!' Marianne cried, stung to an indignation stronger than her resolution to be humble. 'No one ever killed for me, and those that say so—'

'Are not so very far out. Granting that no actual murder was committed on your behalf, I hope you do not mean to deny that on the same night two men challenged each other to fight and two more actually fought on your account.'

'Not two more, Sire. One more. The same man was the cause of both duels.'

Napoleon struck the desk a resounding blow with the flat of his hand:

'Stop splitting hairs, Madame! I don't like it. One thing is certain. My gendarmes caught two men in the act of fighting a duel in your garden. One escaped, the other failed to do so. How long has Fournier-Sarlovèze been your lover?'

'He is not my lover, Sire,' Marianne said wearily. 'Nor has he ever been. As Your Majesty knows full well, being aware of the deep bond of affection which exists between him and my friend, Madame Hamelin. Now let me entreat Your Majesty to forget that unfortunate business. It is not what I have come about.'

'But it is what I wish to talk about. I want the matter cleared up. General Fournier refuses consistently to offer any explanation other than this idiotic tale about a friendly bout with a foreign acquaintance. Which seems hardly likely when Chernychev had already cried off from fighting this damned Beaufort because Prince Kurakin had given him an urgent message for the Tsar. Not quite the moment to get out the foils.'

So the men who had invaded her garden on the night of the duel had recognized the Russian attaché and Fournier's gesture had been in vain. She bowed her head.

'Your Majesty knows the other man was Count Chernychev?'

Napoleon's face took on a sly grin which to Marianne appeared positively satanic:

'I thought so… certainly, but now you yourself have told me so.'

'Sire!' Marianne protested, outraged. 'That was unworthy!'

'It is for me, Madame, to be the judge of what is or is not unworthy. And let me advise you to moderate your voice if you wish me to hear you out.' There was a pause, occupied on his side in a close scrutiny of Marianne's crimsoned face. 'And now,' the Emperor went on, 'now I am waiting to hear from you a complete – and truthful – account of what passed in your house that night. Do you understand? I want the truth, and the whole truth! And you would be unwise to attempt a falsehood. I know you too well not to see through it at once.'

Marianne's eyes glazed at the prospect opening in front of her. Tell what had taken place in her room? Describe to this man, who had once been to her of all lovers the most passionate, the humiliating usage she had suffered at Chernychev's hands. It was an ordeal which seemed beyond her strength. But already Napoleon had walked round to the other side of his desk and was standing propped against it with his arms folded, watching her closely:

'Well, Madame. I am waiting.'

At that moment, Marianne had a brainwave. He wanted to know everything that had happened in her room that night? Then surely, this was the perfect, undreamed of opportunity to tell him all about the dreadful bargain which had been the beginning of the evil plot against Jason? Such a consideration made her own scruples of modesty and pride irrelevant.

Bravely, she lifted her head and stared very steadily into Napoleon's eyes:

'You wish to know everything, Sire? Very well, I will tell you everything. And I swear by my mother's memory that it shall be the entire truth…'

Then Marianne began her story. She spoke haltingly at first, forced herself to find words that should be simple and convincing. Then, little by little, she warmed to her story. The horror of that July night took hold of her again so that the words came pouring out with their full weight of agony and shame. She told it all: her bargain with Francis Cranmere, his false warning, her fears for Jason's life, then the appearance of the Russian, having drunk himself into a condition of primeval savagery, and the rape and torture he had inflicted on her, followed at last by Fournier-Sarlovèze's almost miraculous intervention, the arrival of the law officers and the general's action in allowing his adversary to escape in order to avoid possible diplomatic complications. During all this time, the Emperor did not once interrupt, but as she talked Marianne saw the tightening of his jaw and the ominous steely glint which came into his blue-grey eyes.

When it was over, she bowed her face into her trembling hands and said exhaustedly: 'You know it all now, Sire. I swear to you that every word of all that I have told you is the simple truth.' She took her hands from her face and added quickly: 'And I say that Lord Cranmere's visit to me was the start of the tragic events which—'

'Wait a moment, we are not there yet,' Napoleon interrupted her curtly. 'You have sworn that all this is the absolute truth.'

'And I will swear it again, Sire!'

'No need. If it was as you say, you must bear the proof upon your person. Let me see.'

Marianne stared at him wildly, scarlet to the roots of her dark hair:

'You mean – the burn? But, Sire, it is – it is on my hip!'

'Well? Take off your clothes.'

'Here?'

'Why not? No one will come in. And I believe I am right in thinking it will not be the first time you have undressed in my presence? Time was, and not so long ago, you even appeared quite glad to do so.'

Marianne's eyes filled with tears at this cool, sardonic reference to a time which would always count amongst her most cherished memories, although it seemed to her now to belong to another life.

'Sire—' she said weakly, 'that time is – is more remote now than – than perhaps Your Majesty realizes…'

'I do not see it so. And if you wish me to believe you, Madame, you must prepare yourself to bring proof. If not, you may go. I shall not detain you.'

Slowly, Marianne rose. A lump came and went in her throat, a lump of misery and shame. It was too much. Had he loved her so little, then, that he could demand from her this painful sacrifice of her modesty and of all that had once existed between them? He had been right when he reminded her that once she had gladly offered her body to his gaze, because then his very gaze had been a caress. But he was looking at her now as coldly as a slave merchant inspecting a new piece of goods. And that was not all. There was a gulf between the woman of Butard and Trianon and the woman who, on the hard boards of a prison, had given herself so passionately to the man whose life might now depend on the wreck of her most intimate feelings.

Not looking at him, she began to unfasten her close-fitting green spencer. Her fingers trembled over the black silk frogs but the short jacket dropped to the ground, followed by the long riding skirt, shift and petticoat. Crossing her arms modestly over her breast, she turned so that he could see her injured hip.

'There, Sire,' she said without expression.

Napoleon bent forward. When he straightened once more his eyes were rather grim and he held Marianne's gaze locked in his for a moment in silence.

'You must love him,' he said softly at last.

'Sire!'

'No. Don't speak. It was that I wanted to know, you see. You do not love me any more, do you?'

Her eyes were searching his now:

'I do love you, indeed I do… only – differently.'

'That is what I said. You are… fond of me.'

'But yourself, Sire? What of your feelings for me – are they still the same? Is the Empress not… very close to your heart?'

He gave her one of his rare, very charming smiles:

'Yes. You are quite right. And yet… it will be a long time, I think, before I can look at you without a tremor. Put your clothes on.'

While she, trembling now with haste, pulled up her shift and skirts and refastened her spencer, Napoleon turned to rummage among the papers cluttering his desk as if he were searching for something. At last, he unearthed a large sheet of paper covered with fine writing and already sealed with the great imperial seal and held it out to Marianne.

'Here,' he said. 'This is what you came for, isn't it, at the risk of breaking both our necks? Jason Beaufort's pardon? You see, I attended to it before you came. It is all ready.'

'A pardon, Sire?… Oh, God! How happy you have made me!… Is this nightmare really at an end? He will go free?'

Napoleon frowned and took back the reprieve. The friend had gone, transformed abruptly into the Emperor once more:

'That I did not say, Madame. I have spared your American pirate's life because I know – although I have no formal proof – that he did not kill Nicolas Mallerousse. But the charge of smuggling remains, as does that of the counterfeit English notes. To make matters worse, it is the talk of every chancellery and I cannot ignore an allegation of such seriousness. Beaufort will not lose his head, therefore, but neither can he go free.'

The flame of happiness in Marianne's heart dwindled to a pale glimmer.

'Sire,' she said in a low voice, 'I can assure you that he is innocent of these as of the other.'

'Your word is a frail defence against overwhelming evidence.'

'If you will only let me explain – tell you what I believe happened and how, then I am certain—'

'No! Ask no more, Madame. It is out of my power to grant your request. Be glad that I have spared his head. I do not say the chain gang is a rest cure, far from it, but men survive – some even return.'

Or escape, Marianne thought, her mind going suddenly to the nonchalant figure of Jason's curious fellow-prisoner. But the Emperor was continuing:

'As to yourself, you are naturally perfectly free to return to your own home whenever you so wish. Your cousin awaits you there, together with that odd character whom you seem to have adopted as another of your "uncles". I have to tell you that he returned from his mission to Monsieur Fouché two days ago. So you have no need to remain in hiding… where did you go, by the way, when you – er – decided to retire from the world at Bourbon l'Archambault?'

Relieved of her most pressing anxiety, Marianne allowed herself a smile.

'Is there anything you do not know, Sire?' she asked.

'A great deal too much. Particularly since I have been obliged to do without the Duke of Otranto. About you, for example. What refuge did you find?'

'No refuge, Sire. A prison,' Marianne told him, determined to conceal as far as possible the parts played by Crawfurd and his wife, and also by Talleyrand. 'Jason Beaufort's wife, who has taken shelter with the Queen of Spain, had me carried off and kept prisoner in a barn on an island on the Mortefontaine estate. I managed to escape, thank God—'

Napoleon's fist was brought down angrily on a small table which cracked ominously under the shock:

'This is not the first time I have heard it suggested that my sister-in-law's house has become, unknown to herself, an asylum for all kinds of people. She is good-natured to the point of stupidity. Tell her any tale and she throws open her purse and her house! But this is too much. It shall be seen to. Now, Princess,' drawing his watch from his fob and giving it a quick glance, 'you have leave to withdraw. I have an audience with Madame de Montesquiou in a few moments, concerning her appointment as governess to the King of Rome – or the Princess of Venice, as may be. Go and rejoin your friend and, in future, do as I tell you. I hope to see you again very soon.'

The interview was over. Watched approvingly by the master, Marianne sank into the deep, formal curtsy which protocol demanded, so low that she was almost kneeling. Then, again in accordance with court etiquette, she backed her way to the door, while the Emperor rang a bell to summon Rustan.

She had reached the door when he stopped her with a gesture:

'Oh, by the by, your friend Crawfurd is also back in the nest. They had been keeping him in a deserted farmhouse somewhere near Pontoise and released him with no other harm than that resulting from the necessity he was at to walk all the way home. A somewhat painful exercise for a man with a gouty foot.'

For an instant, Marianne was speechless. Napoleon's expression was stern but his eyes were laughing. With another wave of his hand, this time of dismissal, he added suddenly:

'You seem to have a genius for making loyal friends, Madame, even of those like that old rascal Talleyrand who are not renowned for their loyalty. Nor is it any mean feat to have attached that night-owl Crawfurd. Before you came he lived for nothing but his worship of our unhappy aunt Marie-Antoinette – you have given him a new zest for youthful adventure. Cherish your friends, Madame. One day, they may be of service to us.'

'I will do my best, Sire.'

Again she was waved to the door but that day Napoleon could not be done with Marianne so easily. He called her back once more:

'I nearly forgot. You may inform the encroaching creature at present kicking her heels in the yellow salon that her beloved Fournier has been back for the past month with his regiment in Spain. It may lessen her temptation to spend the winter at Anvers! And finally – as regards Count Chernychev, when he returns to France I shall let him know my opinion of him. You have my word on that… I have never permitted anyone to hurt those I love. I do not mean to start with you.'

'Sire,' Marianne stammered, moved almost to tears at this last, utterly unlooked-for proof of affection. 'What can I say—'

'Nothing. Your servant, Princess.'

This time, it was over. The closed door stood between Napoleon and the Princess Sant'Anna, but Marianne carried away with her a great sense of comfort, born, initially, of the knowledge that Jason's life was safe, and also of the assurance that she had been restored not perhaps to the Emperor's love, which she would have found something of an embarrassment as things stood, but to his friendship at least. Once again, she was free to act according to her own will, and she meant to make the most of her freedom.

'Well?' Fortunée Hamelin demanded anxiously when Marianne rejoined her in the little drawing-room where she had been left to kick her heels.

'Jason is already reprieved! The Emperor knows that he is innocent of Black Fish's death, but there is still the affair of the counterfeit money. He – he goes to prison.'

Fortunée frowned, thought for a moment and then shrugged:

'A terrible ordeal, but not one to get the better of a man of his stamina. Do you know where he will be sent, and for how long?'

No, Marianne did not know. In her confusion, she had not even thought to ask these two very fundamental questions. The second, indeed, was of minor importance. It mattered not to her whether Jason were sentenced to ten, twenty or thirty years, even to life, since she was determined to do everything she could to bring about his escape. So she only said: 'Let's go. We can talk more freely at your house… I have so much to tell you.'

She took her friend's arm and they followed the footman, who had appeared suddenly as guide, out into the Fountain Court where their horses were waiting.

As they rode back to La Madeleine together, side by side in the gathering dusk, Marianne's mind was already busy with the days ahead. The first thing was to get back to Paris as fast as possible. She was eager now to be at home again, now that she knew that Adelaide and Jolival were waiting for her there. All her trust was in Jolival and in him alone, in his ingenuity and profound knowledge of people of the world, to devise a plan of escape for Jason. Ever since she had been sure that Jason was not to die, she had been looking at things through a rose-coloured haze. Thinking that she was being rather too optimistic, Fortunée set herself to keep her within bounds. Marianne seemed to think that everything would be easy from now on, and that was a dangerous attitude.

'You must not think escape will be a simple matter, Marianne,' she said gently. 'Men sentenced as he is are kept under strong guard. It will need long and careful preparation if the plan is to have the greatest possible chance of success.'

'That man I saw in La Force, François Vidocq, has escaped I don't know how many times. It can't be so very difficult.'

'He escaped, certainly, but he has been recaptured each time, hasn't he? Beaufort's only chance, if you should manage to get him away from his guards, is to embark instantly for his own country. The law officers will have little chance at sea. You must have everything ready, beginning with a boat…'

'We can arrange such details as that at the last minute. I am sure anything Vidocq has done, Jason can do too.'

'Marianne! Marianne!' Fortunée sighed. 'You are talking just like a child. I grant that his life is what matters most but take care, remember that the least slip could prove fatal. Vidocq is familiar with the insides of prisons, he knows what he is doing – Jason's situation will be very different. Take care you do nothing foolish.'

Too happy to be cast down by any such dismal forebodings, Marianne simply shrugged lightly, convinced that a rosy future lay before her and Jason. She was now picturing the penal settlement as a kind of seaside prison where the convicts worked all day outside in the fresh air and where, with the aid of a little money, it would always be possible to obtain special favours from the guards. She had ceased to be greatly concerned even about money. Her far-off husband might cut off supplies but she still had fabulous jewels which she would part from without a pang to win the freedom of the man she loved.

However, the following evening when, after the first joyful greetings were over, she heard Arcadius saying very much the same things, she did begin to feel the faintest suspicion of uneasiness. Arcadius was truly glad to know that Jason was no longer in danger but he did not conceal from Marianne that a sentence of hard labour in a penal colony was very nearly as serious and meant little more than a death sentence somewhat delayed.

'It is hell, Marianne,' he said gravely, 'and the way there a hideous ordeal. Death can strike in a hundred different ways: exhaustion, disease, the ill-will of the other prisoners, punishments, dangerous employment. There is very little mercy in commuting a sentence of death into one of imprisonment and if we mean to attempt an escape we shall have to proceed with infinite caution, and the greatest patience. A prisoner of his kidney will be under stricter guard even than the rest, and failure on our part could lead to his death. You must let me take charge of everything.'

Marianne had noted with amazement how these last weeks had aged Jolival. His usually cheerful face was sunken and silver threads were beginning to show among the black around his temples. He had returned from his journey to Aix with a disappointed heart and a more bitter knowledge of men for, against all his hopes, the Duke of Otranto had refused, stubbornly and categorically, to have anything to do with the Beaufort affair. He had said in coarse but unequivocal terms that it was no longer any concern of his and the Emperor's staff must get along as best they might with his successor. He had even delivered himself of sentiments referring to Marianne which Jolival was careful to keep to himself.

'Princess or no, that woman has a face and a body no man could tire of easily,' he had said. 'While she can make Napoleon want her, she'll get whatever she wants out of him, even now he's shackled himself to a wife. I'll do myself no good by getting mixed up in the business…'

And Arcadius had returned to Paris, stricken and grieving, to find Marianne had disappeared. Day after day, with Talleyrand and Eleonora Crawfurd, he had searched every avenue for news of what had become of her and her aged companion. Their inquiries had led them as far as La Force but there they stopped. The people at the prison had seen the supposed Norman and his daughter walk away comfortably arm-in-arm down the rue des Ballets and turn the corner – after which they had vanished as completely as if they had melted into thin air. All that had been found was the body of the cab driver, floating in the Seine with his throat cut.

'We thought you were dead,' Adelaide said, the traces of her grief still visible in her reddened eyes. 'It seemed impossible that you had not been dealt with in the same way. We were afraid – oh, so afraid! Until the day, last Tuesday it was, when Mr Crawfurd came back at last and told us you had been carried off by a woman and a whole lot of Spaniards, all wearing masks. He knew they did not mean to kill you – or not straight away at least – because he heard them say so. They were waiting for the outcome of the trial.'

'After the sentence was delivered we were nearly mad,' Jolival went on. 'I went to Mortefontaine, thinking Pilar might have had the audacity to take you there, and searched, but I found nothing. In fact, of course, you were already gone because all this happened this week.'

Shocked to read on their faces the agonies they had endured on her account, Marianne blamed herself bitterly for having to some extent neglected them. When she reached Paris after her escape she could have, indeed she ought to have, sent word to Adelaide at least, but when she heard that Jason had been condemned it had driven every thought out of her head except the one idea of how to snatch him from death. The rest of the world had simply ceased to exist for her.

There was such sweetness and real affection in her attempts to explain all this, that neither Adelaide nor Jolival would allow her to continue. Arcadius summed up their feelings in a few words:

'You are here, in one piece, and we are sure that Beaufort's head is safe. And that is that. After that, any complaints would be base ingratitude! We are going to drink to your return, Marianne!' Smiling, he rang the bell for Jeremy to bring them some champagne.

'Do you think we can start celebrating today?' Marianne said, with some asperity. 'When you told me yourself that Jason's life is still not wholly out of danger?'

'Not celebrate, no, merely enjoy a little respite before plunging back head-first into the fray. I may as well tell you at once. Another letter has arrived from Lucca. Your husband demands your instant return and threatens to complain to the Emperor and appeal to him as a vassal to his suzerain to have you sent back to Lucca.'

Marianne felt the colour drain from her face. She had not been expecting such a brutal set-down and Eleonora Crawfurd's stories came back to her mind, giving to this ultimatum an oddly menacing note. Clearly, the prince took her for an adventuress and meant to make her pay for having taken him in, pay with her blood, perhaps.

'He can do as he likes, I shall not go! The Emperor himself cannot compel me to. Besides, I shall probably have left Paris in a little while.'

'Again?' wailed Mademoiselle d'Asselnat. 'But, Marianne, where are you going? And I thought we were going to settle down to a nice quiet life here, in this house, with all it stands for.'

Marianne smiled, a fond and very understanding smile, and held out her hand to her cousin with impulsive tenderness. That elderly spinster seemed to have changed a little as a result of her little adventure, which had surely cost her some degree of heartache. The irrepressible energy which had seen her through more than forty years of an eventful and far from easy life seemed to be dead, or at least sleeping. What she must want now above all was quiet and peace. Her expression as she looked round the elegant salon with its fine furniture and ornaments, was almost greedily possessive and acquired a hint of an appeal whenever her eye came to rest on the big portrait of the Marquis d'Asselnat over the fireplace.

'You need not come with me, Adelaide. You need rest and tranquillity, and this house needs a mistress who is here rather more permanently than I have been. I am going away again, and you know I am. Jason's prison will not be in Paris, and I want to go with him now wherever he goes.' She turned to Arcadius. 'Is it known yet where he will be taken?'

'Brest, for sure.'

'That is good news. I know the town well. I lived there for several weeks with poor Nicolas Mallerousse, in his little house at Recouvrance. If I cannot manage to arrange his escape on the way, I am sure I shall have a better chance in Brest than at Toulon or Rochefort where I have never been.'

'We shall have a better chance,' Jolival corrected her. 'I have already asked you to allow me to take charge of everything.'

'Will you leave me all alone?' wailed Adelaide, sounding like a hurt child. 'What shall I do when all these messengers start arriving from the prince, your husband? What shall I say to them?'

'Anything you please! Say I am away, that will be best. Besides, I am going to write to him myself and say that – that I have to go away – a long way away – on the Emperor's service, let us say, but that on my return I shall not fail to comply with my husband's — er — request,' Marianne said, thinking out her letter aloud as she spoke.

'That is madness! You yourself said not a moment ago that you did not wish to return to Lucca—'

'Nor shall I. You must understand, Adelaide, that I am simply trying to gain time… time to rescue Jason. Afterwards, I shall go away with him, away to his own country and live there with him, at his side, in a log cabin if needs must, in poverty, but I will never leave him, never, never again.'

Jolival was swift to intervene. His little black eyes held Marianne's huge ones steadily.

'You are deserting us, then?' he asked softly.

'No, no! The choice is yours. Stay here, in this house – I will give it to you – or come with me over there, with all the risks that involves…'

'Have you remembered that Beaufort is still married to that harpy? What do you intend doing with her?'

'Arcadius,' Marianne said, with sudden gravity, 'when that woman dared to use me as her footstool, and when, most of all, I heard her tell me coolly and implacably that she was determined to send her husband to his death, I swore that one day I would make her pay for it. If she dares to approach Jason again, I shall get rid of her without a second thought. There is nothing,' her voice shook with the intensity of her feelings, 'nothing I would not do to keep him for myself. I would not even shrink from a murder which, all told, would be no more than a just execution. I fought a duel with one man who debased me, I killed the woman who insulted me… I shall not let a wicked wife destroy the one love of my life!'

'You have turned into a terrifying woman, Marianne!' Mademoiselle d'Asselnat exclaimed, with a horror not entirely devoid of admiration.

'I am your cousin, my dear. Can you have forgotten that the night we met you were trying to set fire to this house to punish it for belonging to a creature you had decided was unworthy of it?'

The entrance of Jeremy bearing lighted candles forced them to break off the conversation. Absorbed in their discussion, not one of the three had observed that it was growing dark. Shadows had crept into the farthest corners of the room and crowded thickly about the curtains and hangings and under the lofty ceiling. The only light came from the fire blazing in the hearth.

They sat in silence while the butler disposed branches of candles about the room, clothing everything in it in a golden radiance. When he had departed, with a gloomy pronouncement that dinner would be served shortly, Adelaide, who was sitting bundled up in a vast, white woollen shawl in the armchair by the fire, stretched out her thin hands to the dancing flames and remained for a moment staring into them. Locked each in their own thoughts, Marianne and Arcadius, one seated on a cushion before the fire, the other leaning against the chimney piece, were also silent, as though waiting for the familiar sounds of the house to give them an answer to the questions which filled their hearts but which they dared not utter for fear of influencing, however little, the steps which would decide the others' futures.

At last, Adelaide looked up at Jolival and rubbed her hands together quietly.

'They say America is a wonderful country,' she said placidly and a flicker of the old fire shone for a moment in her grey eyes. 'And I have heard it said that in those southern parts it is never cold. I think that I should like never to be cold. You, Jolival?'

'I too,' the Vicomte returned gravely, 'I believe I too should like—'

The doors were flung wide open.

'Her Serene Highness is served!' Jeremy intoned from the doorway.

Marianne slipped her arms companionably through Jolival's and Adelaide's and smiled with deep gratitude upon them both.

'Indeed I am,' she said, 'I am served far, far better than anything I deserve.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN The Road to Brest

Day dawned, grey and dirty, a sodden November dawn, soaked through and through with the thin, freezing rain that had been falling on Paris for some days, penetrating everything. Looming through the yellowish fog of early morning, the old hospice of Bicêtre with its soaring roofs, lofty gateway and nicely balanced buildings, recovered some ghost of its former elegance. The mist concealed the cracks in the walls, the chipped gables and the smashed and glassless windows, the dark streaks that mottled the crumbling stonework below gutters cracked by frost and all the unsightly decay of a building which had once been royal, a work dedicated to the loftiest aims of charity, now put to the meanest uses of the law. Ever since 1796, when it had replaced La Tournelle, it had been the last stage before the galleys, the antechamber to hell, whether the road led via the Conciergerie and the scaffold or to penal servitude, which was a death no less certain but more horrible because stripped of the last rags of human dignity.

In the normal way of things, this gloomy edifice, brooding on its hillside with the waste lands all about, stood silent and alone, but on this day, despite the early hour, a swelling, noisy crowd was surging up against the rotting walls, big with a nameless joy, an unwholesome curiosity. It was the crowd which always assembled there, four times a year, to witness the departure of the 'Chain'. The same crowd of milling humanity, alerted by heaven alone knew what mysterious signs, pressed around the scaffold on execution days, no matter how quiet the thing was kept, a gathering of connoisseurs come together to watch a most choice spectacle with undisguised relish. They beat upon the closed doors of the hospice like patrons in a theatre stamping with their feet, impatient for the curtain to go up. Marianne gazed at this grisly mob with loathing.

She was standing, enveloped from head to foot in a great, black, hooded cloak, in the lee of a broken wall which had once belonged to the hovel whose crumbling remains still stood beside the road. She was up to her ankles in mud, her face was wet and her cloak already sodden with rain. Beside her was Arcadius de Jolival, grim-faced, his arms folded on his chest, also waiting, chewing the ends of his moustache.

He had wished to spare Marianne the pitiful sight in store and had tried, right up to the last minute, to dissuade her from coming, but in vain. She clung stubbornly to her pilgrimage of love, determined to follow every step of the cruel journey that lay before the man she loved, only repeating endlessly that some opportunity might occur on the way and that they must not let it slip.

'The chances of an escape while the chain is on the road,' Arcadius had explained tirelessly, 'are non-existent. They are all chained together, in batches of twenty-four at a time, and they are searched at the first halt to make sure that no one has managed to slip them any tool to sever their chains as they set out. After that they are kept under close guard and any man who is fool enough to try and escape is shot down on the spot.'

In the long days which had gone before, Arcadius had acquired minutely detailed information on everything which concerned the penal colony, the life the men led there and the conditions of the journey which took them there. He had penetrated, in ruffianly disguise, into the worst dens of the Cite and the Barrière du Combat, buying many drinks, saying little but listening a great deal, and, as he had told Marianne, his conviction had grown that any escape would need extremely careful preparation down to the minutest details. Nor had he concealed from her his fears regarding her ability to face the brutal facts about what awaited Jason. There had been a time when he had hoped to keep the greater part from her by advising that she should go to Brest and begin to make arrangements there while he followed the convict chain on its journey. But Marianne had refused to hear of any such plan. Nothing would dissuade her from following Jason step by step from the moment of his leaving Bicêtre.

Jolival gazed with a jaundiced eye at the desolate scene about him. Here and there in the waste an occasional chimney was beginning to smoke. On the edge of the crowd a number of dark figures stood in isolated groups of two or three, with the wretched, hopeless air of people in great grief. They were the wives, relatives and friends of those about to be deported. Some were weeping, others simply stood, like Marianne herself, faces strained towards the hospice, eyes wide open, every feature turned to stone by the hard frost of unshed tears.

There came a sudden roar from the crowd. Creaking, grinding, the great gates were swinging open… Two mounted officers appeared, their bodies hunched against the rain which streamed from the angles of their cocked hats, using their horses and the flat of their swords to beat back the crowd, which was already surging forwards. A shudder ran through Marianne. She took a step forward, but instantly Jolival seized her arm and dragged her back.

'Stay where you are!' he said, with unconscious harshness. 'You need not go any closer. They will pass us here.'

The first wagon had already appeared, to be greeted by a horrid outburst of boos, catcalls and abuse. It was a kind of long cart, supported on two enormous iron-shod wheels and divided along the whole of its length by a two-sided wooden bench on which the prisoners sat back-to-back, twelve to a side, their legs dangling, held in place by a crude rail at waist level. Each man was chained by the neck by means of a solid, three-cornered iron collar attached to a length of chain, too short to allow him to jump from the wagon on to the road. This chain was in turn connected to the much heavier chain which ran the length of the bench, its end lying firmly beneath the foot of the armed guard standing at the end of each wagon.

There were five of these conveyances. There was no protection, not even the most rudimentary piece of sacking, to stand between the prisoners and the rain which was already soaking through their clothes. Their prison uniform of black and grey striped canvas overalls had been taken off them for the journey and their own clothes restored to them, but so mutilated that should any man escape no one who saw him could doubt that he was a convict. Coats were lacking their collars, cuffs were shredded to ribbons, and hats, for those that had them, had been shorn of their brims.

Marianne watched them pass, appalled at the pallid, unshaven faces, hate-filled eyes and open mouths that spewed out blasphemies and obscene songs. They were shivering in the icy rain and some, the youngest, had to bite back tears when in a grieving face that loomed up through the grey drizzle they recognized the features of someone they knew.

In the leading wagon, she caught sight of François Vidocq. He sat wrapped in a scornful silence which in the midst of the cursing and groaning all about him had its own kind of greatness. The eyes that rested on the excited mob held such contempt that they seemed not to see at all, yet they saw Marianne and were instantly transformed. She saw the stubbly jaw relax in a brief smile as Vidocq nodded to the wagon next in line. At the same time, Jolival tightened his hold on Marianne's arm.

'There!' he hissed. 'Fourth from the front.'

But Marianne had already seen Jason. He was sitting very upright among the rest, his eyes half-closed, his mouth set in a thin line. He was quite silent, his arms folded on his chest, and seemed wholly insensible to all that was going on around him. His attitude was that of a man refusing either to see or to hear, his being turned inwards the better to conserve his strength and energy. The rags of his torn cambric shirt and the ripped, collarless coat gave little protection to his broad shoulders and the tanned skin showed through in many places, but he did not appear conscious of the cold or the rain. In the midst of this howling mob, with fists raised in impotent menace, mouths distorted by foul invective, he was as remote as a figure carved in stone. Marianne, her lips already parted to call out his name, fell silent when he passed her unseeingly, realizing quite suddenly that it might only have caused him pain to see her there in the crowd.

One cry of horror she could not repress, when the guards, tiring of the racket kept up by their prisoners, took out their long whips and laid about them impartially, flailing at cringing backs and shoulders, and at the heads they tried to shield with their folded arms. The shouting ceased and the cart rolled on.

'Bastards! Stinking bastards, knockin' about a right'un like him!' muttered an angry voice behind her. Marianne knew the voice and, turning, saw Gracchus, whom she and Arcadius had left with the chaise in the square of Gentilly village, standing bareheaded in the rain with clenched fists and great tears rolling down his cheeks, mingling with the rainwater. He must have left the carriage to take care of itself and come himself to see the chain pass by. His eyes followed Jason's cart until it was out of sight. Then, when it had been swallowed up in the mist, and the other carts had come and gone and the kitchen wagon was clattering by with a great clanging of metal pots and pans, Gracchus looked at his mistress, who was sobbing on Jolival's shoulder.

'We're never goin' to leave him like that?' he asked belligerently.

'You know quite well we're not,' Jolival told him. 'We are going after him and we are going to do our best to free him.'

'Then what are we waiting for? Beggin' your pardon, Mademoiselle Marianne, but you'll not get him out of it by crying. We've got work to do! Where's the first stop?'

'Saint-Cyr.' It was Arcadius who answered. 'That's where the last search is made.'

'We'll be there first. Come on!'

The discreet travelling carriage, with no outward signs of wealth beyond a pair of lively-looking post horses, was waiting with lighted lamps under the trees not far from the Pont de la Bièvre. As the morning advanced, the tanneries which bordered this stretch of the river began to come to life, spreading a powerful stench through what was otherwise a pretty scene, dominated by the square church tower. Marianne and Jolival got into the chaise in silence while Gracchus hoisted himself nimbly on to the box. A click of the tongue as the whip curved gracefully through the air to flick the leader's ear, a faint creak from the axles and they were off. The long journey to Brest had begun.

Marianne leaned her cheek against the rough fabric of the squabs and abandoned herself to her tears. She wept quite silently, with no sobbing, and it did her good. It was as if the hideous sights she had just beheld were being washed from her eyes, and at the same time her own natural courage and will to succeed slowly returned to take possession of her mind. Arcadius, sitting beside her, knew her too well to make any attempt to stem the beneficent flow or offer the least word of comfort. What could he have said? It was necessary for Jason to endure this dreadful journey because it led not to his prison alone, but to the sea, from which he had always drawn his strength.

Marianne left Paris without regret, with no expectation of ever going back there, or with no more regret than the slight pang she felt at parting from her few remaining friends there: Talleyrand, the Crawfurds and, most of all, her dearest Fortunée Hamelin. But Fortunée had refused to give way to sentiment. Even as she embraced her friend for the last time, her eyes full of tears, she had insisted, with all the infectious enthusiasm of her sun-loving nature:

'This is not good-bye, Marianne! When you are an American, I shall come and visit you there, and see if the men are as handsome as they say. Judging by your corsair, it must be true!'

Talleyrand had confined himself to a calm assurance that they were bound to meet again some day, somewhere in this wide world.

Eleonora Crawfurd had applauded Marianne's plan to put the width of the ocean between herself and her alarming husband. Adelaide, left to act as mistress of the family mansion, had treated their parting in a philosophical fashion. As far as she herself was concerned, there was little to fear however matters turned out. If Marianne failed in her plans for Jason's escape, then she would of course return to her own place in the household. If she succeeded and she and Jason won their way to the State of Carolina, then there would remain nothing for Adelaide to do but pack up her traps, slip the key under the door and catch the first boat to a new and adventurous life, with the idea of which she was already half in love. All was therefore for the best in the best of all possible worlds!

Before she left Paris, moreover, Marianne had received a communication from her lawyer which, in the circumstances, was extraordinarily welcome. It stated that the unfortunate Nicolas Mallerousse had, during the time when she had stayed with him in Brest, after her escape from Morvan's manor house, constituted her his sole heir. The little house at Recouvrance and the few bits and pieces it contained were henceforth her own property, 'in memory', Nicolas had written in his will, 'of the days when she had made me feel as if I had a daughter once again'.

This legacy had touched Marianne deeply. It was as though her old friend were speaking to her from beyond the grave, assuring her of his affection still. She also saw in it the hand of Providence and something very like tacit approval on the part of fate for what she meant to do. There was, in fact, nothing which could possibly have been more useful just then than the little house on the hill, looking out one way to the sea and the other to the buildings of the arsenal and, in the midst of them, the prison.

All these things were in her mind as the horses trotted easily towards the next stage. The day was as grey as ever, but the rain had stopped. As ill luck would have it, its stopping had been the signal for a sharp wind to get up which must have been unpleasant for men out in the open in wet clothes. A hundred times, as they went on, Marianne looked back to see if the chain were yet in sight, but it never was. Even at their present gentle pace, the carriage could outstrip the lumbering wagons with ease.

Just as Jolival had predicted, they reached Saint-Cyr far in advance of the convict chain, giving him time to engage rooms for Marianne and himself in a modest but respectable inn. Even this necessitated a certain amount of argument, since her first concern was to discover where the prisoners were to spend the night. She was directed to a huge barn just outside the town, whereupon she immediately rejected the inn, declaring she could perfectly well sleep in the chaise, or even in an open field. For once, Arcadius lost his temper with her:

'What are you trying to do? Catch your death of cold? That will be a fine help, if we are obliged to put up in some inn for a week to nurse you!'

'Of course I should not stay anywhere – not if I were shivering with ague! If I were at my dying gasp I should still go with him, on foot if I had to!'

'Much good that would do you, if I may say so!' Jolival growled. 'For God's sake, Marianne, stop playing off these tragedy airs! It will not help Jason Beaufort if you catch your death on this damned road. On the contrary. And if your only aim is to mortify your flesh so as to share his sufferings, then you had better shut yourself up in a convent, my dear, the strictest we can find, where you may fast and sleep on the floor and have yourself beaten three times daily if you please! At least you will not be a hindrance when the chance of an escape does arise!'

'Arcadius!' Marianne cried, shaken. 'To talk to me so!'

'I talk to you as you deserve. And, since you will have it, I think this insistence of yours on following the chain is foolish beyond permission!'

'I have told you a hundred times: I cannot be apart from him. If anything were to happen to him—'

'I should be here to see it. You would be a hundred times more useful to us posting on to Brest and settling down in the house you have inherited, establishing yourself in the neighbourhood and getting to know the people. Have you forgotten that we are going to need assistance, a sea-going vessel and a crew? No, you prefer to stay here, weeping at the foot of the Cross! Trailing in the wake of the chain, like some self-dramatizing Magdalen! Or are you going to whip out a veil and mop his fevered brow, like St Veronica? Confound it all, if there had been the slightest chance of saving Jesus, I promise you those women wouldn't have wasted their time trotting about the back streets of Jerusalem! Are you determined the Emperor should hear that you have been defying his commands again? That the Princess Sant'Anna is following the convict chain to Brest?'

'He will not know. We are travelling very quietly. I pass for your niece.'

This was true. For greater safety, Jolival had procured, through Talleyrand, a passport in his own name, including a mention that his niece Marie was travelling with him. But the Vicomte only shrugged irritably:

'And do you think no one will know your face? You little fool, the guards with the column will have found you out within three days! So no dramas, if you please. Do nothing to make yourself conspicuous. Like it or not, you will go to bed like other people – at an inn!'

Overborne, but resentful, Marianne gave in at last, with the stipulation that she need not retire to her inn until the convict chain had halted for the night. She could not bear to give up a single chance of seeing Jason.

'No one will even notice me,' she pleaded. 'There are so many people waiting there already.'

Once again, she spoke the truth. The dates on which the chain came through were always the same and they were known throughout the district. It had a curious fascination for the country people and they would come, often from miles around, to gather at the places where the wagons halted and sometimes to follow them for part of the way. Some came with charitable intentions, giving the prisoners little gifts of food, or a worn garment, or a few small coins. But for the most part, they came simply for amusement, honest folk finding a powerful relief from their own humdrum troubles in contemplation of the criminals' punishment, and of a wretchedness beyond anything even the poorest there would ever know.

The little town was full of people, although the sharpest, and the better informed, had already taken up their positions near the barn. The fact was that before they were allowed to rest for the night the convicts had to submit to a thorough, detailed search, intended to simplify the task of the guards during the remainder of the journey. At the other halts, there would be nothing more than a check on the shackles and a brief run-over. Marianne wormed her way through the crowd, Jolival, still disapproving, on her heels.

They heard the chain coming long before they saw it. Borne on the wind came a fearsome clangour of voices howling and loud, raucous singing, made louder as it approached Saint-Cyr by the roaring of the worthy townsfolk. Then, just passing the last houses of the town, two mounted officers appeared, their shoulder belts showing up as a white cross on each chest. They stared straight ahead, grim-faced, whereas the prison guards who came after them were grinning at the crowd, like the heroes of a successful play. Behind them, the first wagon lumbered into view.

When all five vehicles had been lined up together in a field, the prisoners were made to get down and the search began. At the same moment, as if in response to some secret signal, the rain came on again.

'Are you really determined to remain here?' Jolival murmured into Marianne's ear. 'I warn you, it is no fit sight for you. You should—'

'Once and for all, Arcadius, I ask you to let me alone. I want to see what they do to him.'

'As you will. You shall see. But don't say I didn't warn you.'

Marianne turned away from him pettishly. A few moments more found her staring very hard at the ground, scarlet with shame. Despite the cold and the rain, the prisoners were being made to strip off every vestige of clothing. Standing there, barefoot in the mud, in nothing but the iron collars round their necks, they were subjected by their guards to a search so thoroughly degrading that it could only have been intended as an additional punishment. While one man inspected suits, shoes and stockings, another examined every orifice of their bodies with minutest care. It was a known fact, however, that the prisoners were adept at concealing a variety of tools, from tiny files to watchsprings which could release a man from his irons in less than three hours.

Marianne, crimson to the roots of her hair, kept her eyes firmly on her own feet and on the clump of trampled grass on which she stood. To everyone around her it seemed to be a high jest. Even the women, honest matrons for the most part, were commenting on the prisoners' persons with a freedom which would not have disgraced a grenadier. Desperate, Marianne tried to turn and beg Jolival to take her away, but a sudden movement among the now wildly excited crowd parted her from him and, without quite knowing how, she found herself carried into the front rank of the onlookers. The hood which she had drawn down over her hair to hide her face had been pushed back in the press and suddenly she saw Jason right in front of her.

The distance between them was not so great that he could help but see her. She saw his face change horribly. His skin turned suddenly grey and the look of anger and shame glaring in his eyes was frightening. He thrust at her violently to drive her away, oblivious of the whip which at that instant thudded into his back.

'Go away! Go away at once!'

Marianne tried to answer, to tell him that she had only wanted to share his sufferings, but already there was an iron hand gripping her arm, dragging her back, irresistibly, regardless of the pain it caused her. There was a moment's agonizing pressure, a quick scuffle and Marianne found herself at the back of the shouting wedge of people staring into the face of Jolival, who was literally green with anger:

'Well? Are you satisfied? You saw him? And you made damned sure that he saw you – at the moment of all moments when he would a hundred times rather have died than be seen by you! Is this what you call sharing his ordeal? Don't you think he has enough to bear?'

Marianne's overstretched nerves snapped all at once and she burst into convulsive sobs:

'I didn't know, Arcadius! I couldn't ever have known, ever imagined anything so vile! I was pushed forward by the crowd – when I only wanted not to look…'

'I warned you,' Jolival said ruthlessly. 'But you are worse than a mule! You will not listen to anyone! One would think you took pleasure in torturing yourself.'

Marianne's only answer was to cast herself into his arms in such desperate floods of tears that he was softened. His hand came up to stroke her rain-sodden hair.

'There, there… Hush, now, my baby! I am sorry I was angry – but you make me so when you insist on adding to your own troubles.'

'I know… dear friend… I know! Oh, I am so ashamed!… You can't know how ashamed I am! I have hurt him… I wounded him, when I would give my life…'

'Now, now – don't begin again!' Jolival besought her, gently removing her clinging form from about his neck. 'I know all about it, always have done, and if you do not calm yourself at once and stop turning the knife in the wound, I swear to you on my honour I will box your ears as if you were my own daughter! Come, now, let us go back to the inn.'

Taking her wrist once more, he led her rapidly back towards the town, ignoring her feeble protests and the sporadic efforts she still made to run back to the barn. Only when they reached the first houses did he release his hold on her at last.

'Now promise me that you will go straight back to the inn at once, and no turning back!'

'Go back-all by myself? But Arcadius—'

'No. No "but Arcadius". Back, I said. I am going back to the field.'

'But – what for?'

'To see if a little payment to the guard won't procure me a few words with him. And to give him this.'

Opening his big cloak, Jolival showed the loaf which he had been carrying all this time, tucked under his left arm. Marianne looked again from the bread to her friend's suspiciously bright eyes. It made her want to cry again but this time her reasons were different and she managed a smile instead. It was a pathetic enough little smile, in all conscience, but it tried hard to be brave:

'I'll go. I promise.'

'About time too. Now you're being a sensible girl.'

'Only—'

'What now?'

'If you do speak to him – ask him to forgive me – and say I love him.'

Jolival shrugged, raised his eyes to heaven as if to call the skies to witness the idiocy of some people, then folding his cloak around him once more, he strode off into the wind. His voice came back to her:

'Do you think that's really necessary?'

Faithful to her promise, Marianne too began to run back towards the inn, where an ostler was already lighting the big oil-lantern hanging over the gateway. It was nearly dark. The rain had stopped again for the present but the clouds piling up on the horizon were more than just the harbingers of night. She forced herself to shut her ears to the savage din which still floated after her and plunged into the inn like someone running for her life. She went straight up to her room. The single public room was too full of people, mostly men drinking mulled wine and talking over what they had just seen, and Marianne had no desire to meet anyone.

When Arcadius came up to her an hour later, she was sitting in a basket chair by the fire, her hands lying in her lap, so still that she seemed scarcely conscious. However, she looked up when she heard him come in, a questioning look in her eyes.

'I was able to get the bread to him,' Arcadius said, with a slight shrug, 'but not to speak to him. The prisoners were too excited. The search had made them nearly mad. None of the guards would have dared to break the chain – not even for gold. I'll try again later on. Now, Marianne, will you listen to what I have to say?'

He drew up a chair to the fire and sat down opposite her, leaning his elbows on his knees, his black eyes looking very steadily into hers:

'Listen – calmly? Like a sensible girl?'

When she nodded, without speaking, he went on: 'You will leave here in the morning, without me, but taking the chaise. Gracchus is more than adequate protection. He'd let himself be torn in pieces for you, that boy. No, let me speak,' he added, seeing Marianne's eyes widen and her mouth half open to protest. 'If you continue to follow the chain, we shall have to conceal your presence not only from the guards, who would not take long to spot you, as I said, but also from Jason himself. Your being here can only increase his sufferings. No man worthy of the name wants the woman he loves to see him reduced to the status of an animal. You will go on ahead, therefore, to begin preparations for his escape, while I follow on horseback.'

Marianne sighed. 'I know. You want me to go to Brest and—'

'No. You are quite wrong. I want you to go to St Malo.'

'To – to St Malo? Good heavens, whatever for?'

Jolival's small answering smile managed to combine pity, doubt and some irony.

'What I find so disheartening about you, Marianne, is the speed with which you contrive to forget the very friends who can be most useful to you. I thought you had a friend named Surcouf – indeed, I had the impression you had actually saved his life?'

'Yes, but—'

'Baron Surcouf, my love, may not be a privateer any longer, but he remains a very powerful shipowner.' Jolival spoke silkily. 'Can you tell me a better way to obtain a sound, seaworthy craft and a reliable crew? Well then, tomorrow morning you will set out posthaste for St Malo and lay siege to the gentleman. What we need is a good ship and a crew willing and able to help us get a prisoner away from Brest.'

Marianne could think of nothing to say. Jolival's words had suddenly opened up an immense perspective, dominated by the vigorous, reassuring figure of the corsair-baron. Surcouf! Why had she not thought of him before? She was trying to rescue a sailor – how could she have forgotten that supreme sailor of them all? If he would agree to help her, then Jason's freedom was assured! But would he?

'It's a good idea, Arcadius,' she said after a pause. 'But don't forget, Surcouf is a loyal subject of the Emperor's – while Jason is simply a condemned criminal. He will never do it.'

'He may not, but it is worth trying all the same. I shall own myself very much surprised if he does not give us some help at least, or else the legend and the man are very different things! At worst, you can offer to pay him for both ship and crew. Always supposing you are not robbed on the way, you have enough in that coffer of yours to buy a kingdom!' The Vicomte pointed with a long finger at one of Marianne's boxes.

Marianne's gaze followed his finger and brightened visibly. When she had left home, she had done so with the Sant'Anna jewels in her possession, fully determined to use them to further her plans should the need arise. If and when she ever reached America with the man she loved, then she meant to send the precious casket, with what remained of its contents, back to Lucca, reserving the right to pay back later anything she might have spent. Whatever happened, it was true that she had the wherewithal to buy not one but a dozen ships.

Jolival had been following the direction of her thoughts as they were reflected in her mobile countenance. When he thought she had pondered his proposal long enough, he said quietly: 'Well? You'll go?'

'Yes. You win, Arcadius. I will go.'

It was blowing a gale when Marianne's chaise clattered on to the Chaussée du Sillon, the narrow strip of dry land which formed the causeway linking St Malo to the mainland, and Gracchus had much ado to hold his horses, frightened as they were by the stinging lash of the salt spray bursting over the sea wall. Even in the sheltered anchorage on the other side, the close-packed masts were bowing before the wind. At the far end of the causeway, wrapped in the circle of its classic fortification, the corsair town loomed like an enormous pie made of grey granite, topped by the blue-tiled roofs of its houses, the tall church spires and the massive towers of its medieval castle.

The sea which pounded against the causeway, throwing up great, snowy bursts of spume from its heaving, greenish surface and sending white horses charging furiously against the city of men, was no stranger to Marianne. It was the same sea which, long months ago now, had caught her up in its wild raging, beaten and tumbled her as it smashed Black Fish's boat to pieces and cast them all up at last, naked and half-dead, beside the wreckers' deceitful fires. It was the same sea which battered Morvan's estate, a frenzied and malignant sea, quick to anger and to malice, relying, when the power of a direct assault had failed, on the deadly snares of its deep waters, undersea reefs and treacherous currents. The wind howled round the carriage and crept in through the small crevices around the windows, bringing with it a sharp sea-tang of salt and seaweed.

The streaming horses plunged through the echoing vault of the huge St Vincent gate and instantly their panic ceased. Behind the great ramparts, where the sea could not reach, all was comparative peace and Marianne was a little surprised to find the people going about their business as naturally as in the finest weather. Hardly a soul seemed to take notice of her tempestuous arrival. Only one of the soldiers mounting a somewhat casual guard upon the gate took the clay pipe from his mouth and remarked to Gracchus, who was shaking the water from his dripping hat: 'Bit of a blow like, eh, lad? Nor'wester… 'orses ever takes agin it.'

'So I noticed,' Gracchus responded amiably. 'And grateful I am to know it's a nor-wester, but if it's all the same to you I'd be gladder still to know where Monsieur Surcouf lives.'

The words had been addressed to the man on the gate but almost before the words were out of his mouth a crowd of people had gathered round the vehicle, all talking at once: women in calico bonnets who set down their baskets and pointed, sailors in hard waxed hats and aged fishermen in red stocking caps so prolific of hair and whisker that there was little of their faces to be seen beyond a red nose and a pipe. Everyone was offering to show the way. Gracchus stood on the box and endeavoured to make sense of the hubbub.

'Not all at once, now… for pity's sake! Is that the way?' He had gathered that all the arms seemed to be pointing in much the same direction, but still no one would consent to be quiet. He was just going to sit down again and prepare to wait patiently for the rumpus to die down when two men rather more determined than the rest took hold of the horses' bridles and began leading the chaise sedately along the street that ran like a deep cutting in between the wall and tall houses within. Marianne stuck her head out of the window in puzzlement:

'What is happening? Have we been arrested?'

'No, Mademoiselle Marianne, taken over, more like. Seems to me Monsieur Surcouf is something of a king in these parts, all these folks is so eager to serve him.'

They were led for some way, passing two more gates and then, still following the line of the wall, bearing right until at last the procession reached a large, rather grim house built of grey granite whose tall windows and lofty doorway adorned with armorial bearings above and a bronze dolphin below pointed to a residence of some importance. Marianne's willing escort thereupon pronounced unanimously that this was it and all that remained to be done was for Gracchus to distribute a number of small coins with the recommendation that the thirstier among them should go and quench their thirst to the health of Baron Surcouf and his friends.

The various persons then dispersed happily, the old salts setting a course for the nearest tavern for a mug of mulled cider, well known to be the most comforting drink in the world when the nor'wester was blowing. Meanwhile, Gracchus had taken hold of the bronze dolphin door-knocker and was gravely asking the ancient serving man who answered it, and who bore a strong suggestion of the retired seaman about him, whether his master was at home to Mademoiselle d'Asselnat. Of all the many names which Marianne had borne, this was certainly the one the privateer knew best.

He was informed that 'Monsieur Surcouf' was at present down at the dry dock but that he would not be long and if the young lady liked she could 'heave to and come aboard', a mode of expression which confirmed Marianne in her first impression of the old man's earlier profession. She was admitted to an entrance hall with a black and white tiled floor and old oak panelling. There was little furniture beyond a sideboard bearing, between a pair of heavy bronze candelabra, a superb model of a flute in full sail, armed for war, gun-ports open and guns run out. A pair of high-back oak chairs stood guard on either side.

The whole house breathed the smell of new wax, suggesting to the visitor that the Baronne was a proud housewife. Indeed, everything about the house shone with cleanliness: even in white gloves it would have been hard to pick up a grain of dust. The effect was striking, but also slightly chilling.

Surcouf's 'cabin', when she was shown into it, turned out to be panelled in the same dark wood as the hall but was altogether more human. It was the room of a man of action, redolent of adventure and the sea and rumbustious life, a cheerfully untidy room, the desk heaped high with maps and compasses, papers, pipes and quills, in the middle of which was a spirit-lamp and a candlestick with a candle and a few sticks of sealing wax. Barbaric, brightly coloured rugs were scattered on the gleaming, polished floor, on which sprawled a huge map of the world, held down by a sextant and a brass meridian. Exotic weapons and tattered colours still with the stains of battle on them were arranged about a large chart on the wall and every piece of furniture in the room, with the exception of a bookcase stuffed with books, was covered with a clutter of telescopes, cases of pistols and instruments of navigation.

Marianne had scarcely seated herself in the straight-backed chair, as rigid as its fellows in the hall, which the old man had brought forward for her before there was a sound of booted feet. A door slammed somewhere and almost at once the big room seemed to fill with a great gust of sea air, smelling of iodine and spindrift, and Surcouf himself burst into his private domain. His arrival reminded Marianne so strongly of what she felt each time Jason appeared that something seemed to twist inside her. They were strangely alike, these men of the sea, as if they bore the insignia of some secret brotherhood to which all belonged. Just how far, she wondered, would that brotherhood carry him?

'Now, here's a surprise!' the privateer cried thunderously. 'You, here in St Malo? I can't believe my eyes!'

'You may quite safely do so,' Marianne said, submitting to a smacking kiss on both cheeks, country fashion. 'I am really here! I hope my coming is not disagreeable to you.'

'Disagreeable! Never think it! It's not every day I get the chance of kissing a princess! Damned if I don't do it again!'

He suited the action to the word and Marianne felt herself blushing. She had announced herself by her maiden name.

'How – how did you know—?'

Surcouf's great laughter rang out so heartily that all the lustres in the crystal chandelier tinkled softly in answer:

'That you were a princess? My dear girl, I do believe you think we Bretons are so cut-off it takes us three or four years to get the latest news from Paris! Not a bit of it! We are well up in all the news. Especially' – and here his joyous laugh boomed out again – 'especially when one numbers Baron Corvisart among one's friends. He attended you a short while ago and I got news of you from him. That is all there is to it. And now sit down and tell me what fair wind blows you here. But first, a glass of port to celebrate your coming.'

While Marianne resumed her seat and tried to get over her surprise, Surcouf went to a carved wooden chest and took out a decanter of dark red Bohemian glass and a pair of tall glasses which he filled three-quarters full of a golden brown liquid. Feeling better already for his bracing presence, Marianne watched his movements with a smile.

Surcouf was never anything less than himself. His broad face, framed in a pair of handsome sidewhiskers, was still the same coppery brown and his blue eyes as direct as ever. He had put on a little weight, perhaps, and his broad chest had filled out until the everlasting blue redingote was bursting at the seams and dragging at the massive gold buttons which, when she looked closer, Marianne saw in a kind of daze were none other than Spanish gold doubloons, pierced for the purpose.

After a ritual toast to the Emperor, they drank their port in silence, nibbling little airy ginger biscuits which seemed to the traveller the most delicious food on earth. Then Surcouf swung round a chair and, seating himself astride it, regarded his young friend with an encouraging smile.

'I asked what wind blew you here,' he said. 'But by the look of you, I'd say it was more in the nature of a heavy squall. Right?'

'A storm would be nearer the truth. In fact, I am beginning to wish I had not come. I'm afraid I may embarrass you – or make you think the worse of me.'

'You could not. And whatever reason brings you here, I'll tell you right away that you did quite right to come. Your own delicacy forbids you to say straight out that you need something of me, but I have no hesitation in telling you I owe my life to you. So let's hear it, Marianne. You know quite well there is nothing that you cannot ask of me.'

'Not even – if I were to ask you to help me arrange a man's escape from the penal colony at Brest?'

For all his self-control, he could not conceal the slight start of shock which set Marianne's heart fluttering anxiously. When he spoke, it was very slowly and deliberately:

'The penal colony at Brest? You know someone in that clutch of felons?'

'Not yet. The man I want to rescue is still on his way there. He was sentenced for a crime he did not commit – he was condemned to death, but the Emperor granted a reprieve because he was sure he did not kill – and perhaps, too, because he is not French. Oh, it is a terribly complicated story, but I must try and explain…'

She was growing muddled and confused already. She could hardly speak for fatigue and emotion and could no longer bring herself to look Surcouf in the face. But he interrupted her, saying roughly: 'Wait a minute! A foreigner? What kind of foreigner?'

'An American. He is a sailor, too…'

There was a crack from the chair-back as Surcouf's fist smashed down on to it:

'Jason Beaufort! Thunder of fate! Why didn't you tell me so at once?'

'You know him?'

He got up so suddenly that he knocked over his chair but, ignoring it, he answered: 'It is my business to know every captain of every vessel worth the name both sides of the equator. Beaufort is a fine sailor and a brave man. His trial was a blot on French justice! In fact, I wrote to the Emperor and told him so.'

'You did?' Marianne exclaimed in a choking voice. 'D-did he answer you?'

Told me to mind my own business. Or words to that effect. You know he's not one to beat about the bush. But how comes it about that you are acquainted with the fellow? I thought you were – that is, I believed you to be on terms with His Majesty? I even thought of writing to you to ask for your help, but the business of the counterfeit money decided me against it. I feared to cause you embarrassment. Now here you are, come to ask me to help you help Beaufort to escape, you—'

'Napoleon's mistress!' Marianne finished for him sadly. 'Things have altered since our last meeting, my friend. I am no longer quite such a favourite at court.'

'Suppose,' Surcouf suggested, reaching for his chair and setting it on its feet once more before turning back to the chest where he kept his port, 'you were to tell me all about it. I'm a true Breton, you know, and we all dearly love a good story.'

Heartened by another glass of wine and a fresh supply of biscuits, Marianne embarked on a somewhat tangled account of her relations with Jason and of her recent dealings with the Emperor. However, the port soon exercised a warming effect and in the end she acquitted herself reasonably well in the ordeal. When she finished, Surcouf's comment was typical of the man:

'Damn fool ought to have married you in the first place, not this bowelless wench from Florida who must have been got by a wild Indian fed on crocodiles! You, now, you'd make a real sailor's wife! I saw that right away, when that old devil Fouché got you out of St Lazare.'

Marianne took this as a great compliment, and though she refrained from asking him to elaborate on the subject it was with rather more confidence that she inquired: 'So… you will help me?'

'Need you ask? A little more port?'

'Need you ask?' Marianne retorted, feeling an unexpected lightening of her heart.

The two friends drank eagerly to the success of a plan which they had yet to work out and Marianne felt a delicious sense of well-being creep over her. However, it took considerably more than three glasses of port to produce any noticeable effect on Surcouf's equilibrium. Draining his glass to the dregs, he announced his intention of escorting his visitor to the best hostelry in the town to take a little well-earned rest while he took care of the 'little matter in hand'.

'You can't stay here,' he explained, 'because I am pretty well alone in the house. My wife and children are at our house at Riancourt, near St Servan… and I can scarcely take you all the way there. Besides, Madame Surcouf is a very fine woman but I don't know if the two of you would deal together. She can be a trifle stern – and not overly tender-tongued.'

'A tartar!' Marianne decided mentally, while aloud she assured her friend that she really much preferred to go to an inn. She was anxious to pass unnoticed as far as possible and the fact that she was travelling incognito would make it awkward for her to visit his family. She might have added that she had no desire to figure as a nine days' wonder for the benefit of a pack of children, or to listen to a perfect housewife's comments on the price of grain and the difficulties of procuring foreign goods under the Blockade. A room to herself at a good inn seemed infinitely more attractive.

On this comfortable note, they parted, Surcouf confiding Marianne to the care of his man, the aged Job Goas. Job, who turned out as expected to be a retired seaman, was told off to deliver Marianne to the Auberge de la Duchesse Anne – which, besides being the best in the town, was also the regular posting house – and see her suitably accommodated. Surcouf promised to come himself later in the evening, when he had found the man they needed.

It may have been due to the intoxicating qualities of port wine or perhaps somewhat to relief at this swift acquisition of so substantial an ally, but certain it was that Marianne found the inn charming, her room all that was comfortable and the smells which wafted upstairs from the large public room very thoroughly appetizing. For the first time for very many days, life seemed to have something agreeable to offer.

The little town lay snug within its walls but outside the wind was howling with redoubled fury. The night promised to be a stormy one and the riding lights on the tall masts in the harbour were bobbing up and down like so many drunken sailors. In Marianne's room, however, protected by thick walls and thick panes of leaded glass in the windows, all was warmth and safety. The bed, with its piled-up mattresses surmounted by an enormous red eiderdown, smelled pleasantly of linen dried in the sun, spread on the juniper bushes out on the open heath. Tired from her long journey in bad weather, Marianne could have gone straight to bed, but the port and ginger biscuits had given her an appetite. She felt ravenously hungry and her hunger was sharpened by the delicious cooking smells which were seeping through the whole building. Besides, Surcouf had advised her to eat her dinner in the public room so that he would not have to be taken to her bedchamber when he came with the man he had gone to find. The inn itself was a highly respectable one where a lady might eat alone without fear of importunities. Nevertheless, Marianne decided that Gracchus should share her dinner, so as to be on hand in the event of unlikely but still possible trouble while she waited for Surcouf and his friend.

Seated at a small table close to the immense hearth at which a woman in the graceful lace hennin worn by the women of Pléneuf was making pancakes with the aid of a long-handled pan, the Princess Sant'Anna and her coachman applied themselves unashamedly to the enjoyment of Cancale oysters, large crabs of the kind known as 'sleepers' served with salted butter and a vast cotriade, the Breton bouillabaisse, pungent with herbs. They ended the meal with the traditional golden pancakes and sparkling cider.

Marianne and Gracchus were sipping their fragrant coffee while all around them pipes were being filled with the fine tobacco of Porto Rico, when the low door flew open at a vigorous push from Surcouf. His entrance was the signal for a chorus of loud and joyful greetings, but Marianne paid no attention to these. All her senses were trained on the man who entered in the privateer's wake. Most of his face was hidden by the upturned collar of his heavy pilot coat, but Marianne knew that face too well to be mistaken in its owner, even if he had been wearing a false beard and a hat pulled over his eyes, which he was not. The 'man they needed' was Jean Ledru.

CHAPTER TWELVE The Ninth Star

In the little house which had belonged to Nicolas Mallerousse, Marianne settled down to begin her vigil. She was waiting for two things. The first of these was the convict chain which should by this time be nearing the end of the journey begun more than three weeks before. The second was Jean Ledru's lugger, the Saint-Guénolé, which was working her way round the coast from St Malo to lie up in the little port of Le Conquet until it was time to move out into Brest roadstead.

Despite the bad weather, Ledru had put to sea with a crew of ten able-bodied seamen on the same morning as Surcouf had handed Marianne into her chaise and sent her on her way with boisterous good wishes.

The previous night, when Jean Ledru had reappeared in her life, Marianne had hesitated for a moment before committing Jason's future to the very person to whom she owed her own first, highly unenjoyable sexual experience, as well as subsequent trials of a very different kind. Surcouf, seeing Marianne's troubled face, had uttered a shout of laughter and given Ledru a cheerful push in her direction:

'He came to me last March, along with a personal letter from the Emperor asking me to take him back. To please you. So between the pair of us we patched things up – and have not ceased to be grateful to you. That Spanish war was no good for Jean. He did well enough, but he's not at home on shore. And I was happy to have a good seaman back.'

Feeling deeply conscious of the explosive nature of their earlier relations, Marianne extended her hand to her one-time comrade in misfortune: 'How do you do, Jean. I am glad to see you again.'

He had taken the proffered hand, unsmiling. The eyes that were like two blue forget-me-nots beneath lashes bleached white by the sea, remained thoughtful in the face whose tanned skin and short fair beard were still as she remembered, and for an instant Marianne was in doubt of his reaction. Was he still angry with her? Then, quite suddenly, the still face came to life and the gap between beard and moustache widened into a candid smile:

'And I'm glad too! I should rather think so after what you did for me – and if I can repay it…'

It was all right then. Everything was going to be all right! After that, she had tried to warn him of the risks involved in trying to outwit the law of the Empire but, like Surcouf, he would hear none of it.

'The man we have to rescue is a sailor and Monsieur Surcouf says he's innocent. That's enough for me. I don't want to know any more. What we have to do now is decide how to go about it.'

For two long hours, the three men and the girl sat round the table with a pot of coffee and a pile of pancakes in front of them, working out the broad outline of their plan. It was an audacious one but although Marianne's green eyes were occasionally shadowed with doubt, in the three pairs of blue ones belonging to the three men there was never anything but blazing enthusiasm and the thrill of adventure, so infectious that she soon abandoned every objection, except for one final one when the question of the lugger Saint-Guénolé was raised.

'But surely, these luggers are small boats, too small to sail all the way to America? Don't you think a larger vessel—'

She had repeated her proposal, which Surcouf had already turned down with magnificent disdain, to purchase a ship; but once again the corsair king explained to her, quite kindly, that she was talking nonsense.

'This is the ideal type of vessel to pass unnoticed, and to get someone out of Brest in a hurry, especially in the tricky waters of the Fromveur and the Iroise. She holds well in a sea-way and sails close to the wind. Leave what comes after that to me. And don't worry. There'll be a ship for America when it's wanted.'

With this, Marianne was obliged to be content and they parted for the night. All the time they had been talking, Marianne had been observing Jean Ledru, trying to discover from his inexpressive face whether or not he was cured at last of the destructive and ill-fated passion he had felt for her. His face had told her nothing but, just before they parted, he had told her himself, with a little teasing smile on his lips. Rising to put on his pilot jacket he had spoken, ostensibly to Surcouf, but really for the girl's benefit:

'All right if I leave you here, Cap'n? If I'm to sail with the tide I must say good-bye to Marie-Jeanne. There's no knowing how long we may be away, and a man can't put to sea without a last kiss for his girl.'

The glance at Marianne which accompanied this declaration was bright with mischief. It said, as clear as day: 'You needn't worry. It's all over between us. There's another woman in my life now.' And such was Marianne's delight that she smiled beamingly on him and shook his horny hand with real goodwill. So that it was with a quiet mind on the subject of future relations between them that, with Gracchus on the box and under a steady downpour of rain which showed no signs of ever stopping, she took the road to Brest.

Ever since her arrival in that great port, Marianne had made a point of remaining as inconspicuous as possible. Gracchus had driven the chaise straight to the posting house of the Seven Saints and there they had left it. It was a hired vehicle which would return to Paris with the next traveller. Then, modestly dressed with their baggage loaded on a handcart, he and Marianne had gone down to the quay below the castle to take the ferry across to Recouvrance. This way, as Marianne had discovered when she had been staying with Nicolas, was much shorter than going round by the bridge, which meant following the Penfeld as far as the arsenal, passing close to the grim, high walls of the bagne, the convict prison, and the rope-walks.

A fisherman in the blue cap of the men of Goulven had laid aside the net he was mending to take them over in his boat. The weather that day was very nearly fine. The wind that swelled the red sails of the fishing boats heading into the Goulet and smacked in the flags that flew from the great, round towers of the castle was cold but not unduly rough. In midstream, their boatman had backed water to give way to a longboat towing-in a frigate, proud in her panoply of war, even with all her canvas stowed. The rowers, straining at their oars in time to the whistle blasts of the comite, wore the red caps and jackets of convict labourers. There were even some among them displaying with a kind of pride the green cap of the 'lifer' and all, the green caps and the red, carried the metal plate with their number on it. Marianne, seated on the rough, wooden thwart, had watched them go by with a curious sensation of horror and revulsion. The galleys might exist no longer but these men were still galley slaves of a kind and before long Jason would take his place amongst them. It had been left to Gracchus to rouse her from her gloomy reverie:

'Don't look, then, Mademoiselle Marianne,' he said. 'It'll only make you miserable.'

'Right you are there,' the boatman had agreed, setting his craft in motion once more. 'It's no sight for a young lady. But it's the chiourme does everything hereabouts. Those that aren't needed down at the docks work in the rope-walks or the sailmakers'. They collect up the garbage, too, and carry powder and cases of shot. You're for ever bumping into them. After a while, you just stop seeing them.'

Marianne thought this unlikely, even if she remained ten years in the town.

The boatman had been duly recompensed for his trouble and gave them good night, assuring them that if ever they wanted him they had only to give him a shout.

'My name is Conan,' he told them. 'Just stand on that rock there and give a hail and I'll be right over.'

Followed by Gracchus with the big trunk on his shoulder and a small boy humping a pair of carpet bags, Marianne had plunged into the stepped alleys of Recouvrance and headed in the direction of the Tour de la Motte Tanguy. More than a year had passed since she had left Brest on the mail coach but she found her way as easily as if it had been no more than a week before.

As they drew near to the tower, she was able to pick out Nicolas's little house at a glance: the whitewashed walls and granite cornerstones, the high, pointed gable window and the neat little garden, bare now of its summer flowers. Nothing had changed, not even Madame le Guilvinec from next door who for years had kept house for the secret agent without the least suspicion of his real activities.

Warned in advance by letter, the good woman came bustling out of her own house the moment Marianne and her escort had come in sight, arms spread wide and happiness written all over her long, rather masculine face, which was surmounted somewhat disconcertingly by the traditional head-dress of the women of Pont-Croix, in the shape of an erection rather resembling a kind of lace dolmen tied securely under the chin. The two women had clung together for a moment, crying a little as each remembered the sturdy figure of the man who had first brought them together.

It gave Marianne an odd feeling of homecoming to step once again into Nicolas's little house. Everything there was familiar, from the old, well-polished furniture and gleaming brass and copper to the collection of pipes and the tiny figurines of the Seven Saints which stood on a shelf, the well-thumbed books and the little wooden model of a ship which hung from a beam in the low ceiling. She settled into the house more easily even than she had done into the refurbished splendours of the Hôtel d'Asselnat and from then on, whenever the weather permitted, she had spent the best part of her time wrapped in a big, black shawl in the little leafless garden, gazing out at the roadstead and the quays along the Penfeld.

She had nothing to do but wait, now that the matter of a ship had been settled by Surcouf in his decisive fashion. She had introduced Gracchus as her servant, without denning his duties exactly, but there was little for him to do in such a small house and he passed his days exploring the town, roaming endlessly about the neighbourhood of the bagne and the poor area called Keravel which lay in a cluster of tumbledown houses and twisted alleyways between the wealthy shopping street, the rue de Siam, and the forbidding walls of the prison itself. For company, therefore, Marianne was limited to Madame le Guilvinec who would pop in for an hour or two and sit, knitting interminably, by the fire, or to the worthy woman's cat which had promptly adopted her and was more often than not to be found sleeping contentedly on the hearthstone.

Time seemed to stand still. Already it was December and even inside the Goulet the grey waters of the roadstead were rough with the great winter storms. On nights when the wind roared with the greatest violence, Madame le Guilvinec would set aside her knitting and quietly take out her beads, to pray for sailors and fishermen out at sea. Then, remembering Jean Ledru's lugger, Marianne, too, would begin to pray.

Then, one evening, as the short-lived winter sun was sinking seawards into the mist, the town became filled with a clamour so loud that it rose even above the usual noises of the port: whistles blew and there were echoes of commands roared into loud-hailers. Marianne reacted to the sounds like a war horse to the sound of the trumpet. She snatched up her great, hooded cloak and was out of the door, without even hearing the words her neighbour called after her. She sped down the narrow streets in between the tiny gardens, skidding and jumping on the stones, and reached the quay just in time to see the first wagon round the corner from the rue de Siam and turn along the quay towards the prison.

Even at that distance she could not mistake the uniforms of the guards and the long carts with their enormous wheels on which the men seemed to be crammed together more wretchedly even than at the start, but already it was getting dark and the miserable cortege was soon invisible through the skeins of mist rising from the river. Marianne shivered and, hugging her thick woollen cloak more closely about her, she turned and made her way home to wait for Arcadius, knowing that now the chain was there the Vicomte could not be far off. She had been tempted for a moment to go on as far as the Pont de Recouvrance and wait for him there by the bridge, but then she recollected that if he took the ferry, as she had done, then she would wait in vain.

He came, guided by Gracchus who had found him at the very gate of the prison, just as Madame le Guilvinec was closing the shutters and Marianne herself was bending over a stewpot suspended over the fire, gently stirring a thick and savoury-smelling soup.

'Ah, here is my uncle arrived from Paris at last, Madame le Guilvinec,' Marianne said simply, while the Breton woman fussed about the new arrival. What a long journey indeed! He must be tired!

Arcadius's face was undoubtedly drawn with fatigue, but there was something else in his expression which alerted Marianne at once. His silence, too, was disquieting. He thanked the good-hearted neighbour for her welcome, then went and seated himself on the edge of the hearth, shifting the cat to make room, and held out his hands to the fire without another word.

Marianne stood watching him anxiously, but without saying anything , while Madame le Guilvinec hurried to set the table. Gracchus stepped forward quickly:

'Never mind that, Madame. I'll do it.'

The Breton people are not talkative and they are highly sensitive to atmosphere. The widow of Pont-Croix was quick to realize that her neighbours wished to be alone and lost no time in bidding them good night, saying that she wanted to go to evening service in the chapel near by. Then, scooping up her cat as she went, she disappeared into the night. Almost before she had gone, Marianne was on her knees beside Jolival, who had let his head droop wearily on his hands.

'Arcadius! What is it? Are you ill?'

He raised his head at that and gave her a wan smile which only added to her fears.

'Something has happened to Jason?' she said, anguish suddenly catching at her throat. They have—'

'No, no! He is alive. But he is hurt, Marianne, hurt badly.'

'Hurt? How? Why?'

Then Arcadius told them what had happened. When they halted at Pontorson, one of those on Jason's chain, a young lad of eighteen, had the ague and was calling for water to slake his raging thirst. One of the guards had amused himself by emptying a jug of water over the boy's head and then kicking him in the ribs until he lay still. This had put Jason in a rage. He had sprung at the man and knocked him down. Having done so, he had then knelt on his chest and done his best to choke the life out of him. The guard's fellows had come hurrying to the rescue with their whips and one of the officers had drawn his sword.

'He was wounded in the chest,' Jolival went on. 'The brutes would have killed him but for one of the other convicts, a man called Vidocq, who encouraged the rest to gather round him and protect him. Even so, the remainder of the journey was a nightmare…'

'But – wasn't he looked after?'

Jolival shook his head. 'His comrades did their best when the chain stopped, but they were made to walk two stages on foot as punishment. I thought he would not reach here alive.'

'It's horrible!' Marianne said tonelessly. She sat back on her heels, her whole attitude one of despair, and stared unseeingly at the familiar room. Instead, she saw a bleak road, swept by wind and rain, and a wounded man dragging himself along in chains, kept on his feet by other vague, human figures as exhausted as himself.

'They will kill him,' she said. 'He will never survive. Have these poor wretches even a hospital?'

It was Gracchus who answered:

'There is one in the bagne. But I thought the chain was supposed to have a medical inspection at Pont-a-Lézen before they even got here?'

'The guards refused to leave him there. It's too easy to escape from the quarantine camp. And the man he attacked was against it, saying he'd have sufficient treatment in the prison to make him able to endure the punishment that was coming to him. That man's nothing but a brute beast. He'll not be satisfied until he has his pound of flesh.'

'Punishment? What punishment?'

'A flogging first, and then the cells, where he may remain for several months, if he survives the flogging! And there's no escaping from there.'

The waiting, buoyed up by the very real hopes which Marianne had brought with her from St Malo, had been a time of comparative peace compared with the horror which now took hold of her. She knew now that Jason was caught in the jaws of a relentless and awful machine from which it would be terribly difficult to free him and which might yet destroy him. In his present state, escape was unthinkable and if he recovered it would only be to fall into a still worse plight.

While she sat lost in these dismal meditations, Gracchus, swearing fluently, had taken up the sailor's pea jacket which he had bought the better to mingle unnoticed with the inhabitants of the great port and was putting it on again. Then, pulling his brown woollen cap down over his ears, he made swiftly for the door.

He paused at the sound of Marianne's voice.

'Where are you going at this time of night?'

'To Keravel. There's a wine-shop by the prison gates where the guards go to drink. I'm known there now and I've struck up an acquaintance with a Sergeant La Violette who's a great one for the bottle. A tot of rum'll be enough to make him tell me anything I want to know – and what I want to know is what's become of Monsieur Jason.'

A light came into Jolival's tired eyes at these words.

'He sounds a useful man to know. Well done. You go alone for tonight, but tomorrow I'll come and assist in the saturation of your sergeant.'

When Gracchus returned, two hours later, Marianne and Jolival were still downstairs, he smoking by the fire in silence, she, incapable of sitting still, trying to calm her fidgets by putting away the crockery. The news which Sergeant La Violette had breathed out, along with the fumes of his rum, confirmed that brought by Jolival in all respects, but with one slightly more encouraging addition. One of the prisoners had been brought in wounded and sent at once to the prison hospital. It was his good fortune that the surgeon in charge of the medical arrangements in the prison was still there at the time the chain arrived. A former escapee being brought back to complete his sentence had managed to inform him and he had examined the injured prisoner at once.

'François Vidocq again,' was Marianne's thought. But the thought of that odd, insouciant individual who had so annoyed her in La Force, now evoked nothing but gratitude. She could almost have remembered him in her prayers, knowing that it was thanks to him that Jason was alive at that moment. But for how long? The enmity of the man he had knocked down was all about him, watching its opportunity, and that thought, in the days ahead, was to breed in Marianne's heart a vague, but ever-present fear.

To an outside observer, those days would have appeared calm and unvaried to the point of monotony, punctuated only by the church bells and the castle gun. The inhabitants of the little house lived a quiet, ordered life, attending to their small domestic affairs or walking out, uncle and niece together strolling sedately arm-in-arm through the streets of the town or along the esplanade by the castle, visiting the harbour and the historic old quarters. The young servant, when he was off duty, loafed about doing nothing in particular, as was to be expected of a lad of his age. He would spend hours on the quays by the Penfeld watching the prisoners loading cases of shot and grenades aboard the warships, coiling the new-made ropes as they emerged from the hands of their comrades, working on vessels undergoing repairs and stacking the great baulks of freshly cut timber, still redolent of their native forests, for use in the shipyards. Yet there was another side to these innocent wanderings, which was to gather the greatest possible amount of information and, most important of all, to watch for the arrival of the Saint-Guénolé.

The lugger was taking an inexplicably long time. According to Jolival's calculations, it should have been sighted at least a week before and Marianne found the delay both fretting and alarming. The sea had been so rough of late that who could say whether the little craft would manage to get safely through the Fromveur channel, with its perilous reputation, round the Promontoire de St Mathieu and make the little harbour of Le Conquet without being driven on to the rocks? Even the fishermen mostly stayed at home and they were saying on the quays and in the taverns that no news had come through from the offshore islands for a fortnight or more. As so often in the winter months, Molène and Ushant were cut off from the mainland by the pounding seas.

Once the doors and shutters were safely closed, however, the occupants of the house devoted themselves to less innocent occupations. Jolival spent hours painstakingly cutting in half the big bronze sous, in size and thickness more than adequate for the purpose, and just as carefully putting them together again, but with gold coins concealed inside, money being an indispensable tool for the convict. He had also made a copy of the brass numberplate worn by every convict on his cap, with, on it, Jason's number-learned from Sergeant La Violette – only this time in steel with minuscule saw teeth which would enable it to saw through chains. Meanwhile, Marianne had been learning to bake bread and two large loaves had already been dispatched to the bagne, again through the good offices of La Violette. Inside each one was a piece of ordinary civilian clothing.

After dark, Jolival and Gracchus would slip out of the house and make their way down to Keravel, to the tavern known as 'The Girl from Jamaica' where they were looked on by now as regular customers. Nor was the news they brought back unencouraging. The injured man was recovering, slowly but surely. His youth and strong constitution had won. The danger of infection was past. Arcadius and the surgeon of the prison were, in fact, agreed on the beneficial effects of sea air on healing wounds; but still Marianne was unable to think without a shudder of the narrow pallet of seaweed and the chains which held the body of the man she loved, for the convicts were never released from their chains.

Christmas was coming and as it fell this year on a Tuesday and Friday was market day in Brest, Marianne went with Madame le Guilvinec on the Friday before, down to the rue de Siam to make the necessary purchases in preparation for the festival which was probably dearer than any other to Breton hearts. It would have looked suspiciously odd if the new inhabitant of Recouvrance had behaved differently from her neighbours in this.

The weather was mild but misty. The rue de Siam, always at its busiest on market days, was wrapped in a dense yellow fog, making the animation all about appear strangely subdued. The sailors' striped trousers and varnished hats, the rich, colourful costumes of the peasant girls, a different dress for every village, seemed to fade into unreality. The Leon girls, in their tall hennins with long, fringed shawls falling almost to their heels, took on the air of witches from a fairy tale, while those from Plouaré, all smothered in red and gold embroidery, were like so many figures of the Virgin, stepped down from their niches in the church. Everyone, even the old people in their sombre blacks, was transformed into a fantastic being from another world, while the men, with their embroidered waistcoats, wide, pleated trousers and little round hats were as colourful and gay as any.

Marianne was wandering in Madame le Guilvinec's wake from a stall of oysters to another heaped like a small mountain with cabbages, when she saw a cart loaded with refuse coming towards her. It was being pushed and pulled along by a group of four convicts, one of them wearing the green cap of the incorrigible criminal, under the somewhat vague eye of the guard who was following on behind in a bored way, nose in the air and hands clasped behind his back, oblivious of the sabre banging against his calves. No one took any notice of them. Convict labour was an everyday affair to the people of Brest. There were even some who smiled at them, as at old acquaintances.

The man in the green cap seemed especially well known. A ship's chandler, standing smoking his long clay pipe in the doorway of his shop, gave him a friendly wave. The convict waved back and Marianne saw suddenly that it was Vidocq. He was quite close to her by then and, drawn as though by a magnet, Marianne could not withstand the longing to attract his attention. Madame le Guilvinec had paused underneath the awning of a market gardener's stall to gossip with another old soul in a similar dolmen head-dress to her own and had temporarily forgotten her companion. Marianne raised her hand.

The convict's bright eye caught hers at once. He gave a hint of a smile to show that he had recognized her and then nodded at the next street corner where a heap of refuse was waiting to be carted away. Next, he jerked his head back to where the guard was still ambling along behind the refuse cart and tossed a pebble in his hand, as if it had been a coin. Marianne realized that he was telling her to go to the heap of rubbish where, for the price of a coin, she would be able to exchange a few words with him.

Slipping swiftly between two groups of people, without Madame le Guilvinec's seeing her, she made her way hurriedly to the corner and waited for the cart to come up with her. Then, taking a silver coin from her purse, she slipped it into the guard's hand, saying under her breath that she would like a word with the man in the green cap.

The man shrugged and uttered a crack of ribald laughter:

'That Vidocq! He's a right one for the girls, he is. Go on, then, sweetheart, but not more than a minute, mind!'

It was dark in the entrance to the alley which was no more than a narrow passage, sucking up the fog. Marianne stepped quickly inside, while the convict, with an unnerving rattle of his chains, stationed himself against the slate-hung wall, half-hidden by a small, wooden shrine adorning the corner of the house.

Still out of breath from her haste, Marianne asked: 'Have you any news?'

'Yes. I saw him this morning. He is better, but still far from well.'

'How much longer?'

'A week, at least, maybe ten days.'

'And after that?'

'After?'

'Yes… they told me he… was to suffer some punishment…'

The convict shrugged with a gesture of fatalism. 'He's certainly earned a flogging. It all depends on the man who administers it… If he goes easy with it, he'll survive.'

'But I can't – not even the thought of it! He must escape first. If not, he may be crippled – or worse!'

Quick as a snake, the convict's arm shot out from his jacket pocket and clamped down on Marianne's arm.

'Not so loud!' he growled. 'You talk of it as if it were like going to church! Don't worry, everything's in hand. Have you a vessel?'

'I shall have – or so I hope. It has not arrived yet and…'

Vidocq frowned. 'Without a boat, the thing can't be done. As soon as the alarm is given from the bagne, everyone for miles round takes up the hunt. It's worth a hundred francs to capture a man on the run… and there's a gipsy encampment right by the gates with just that one thought in mind. Real bloodhounds! The moment the gun goes off, it's out with the scythes and pitchforks and away!'

The other convicts had by now finished heaping the refuse somewhat haphazardly on to the cart and the comite's head poked round the corner:

'Ready, Vidocq… on your way, now!'

Vidocq dragged himself away from the wall and began to move out into the street:

'When your boat comes, tell Kermeur at the Girl from Jamaica. But try and make it in a week from now – ten days at the latest. So long!'

Without giving a further thought to Madame le Guilvinec, who had in any case disappeared from sight and was probably looking for her at that moment in some other part of the market, Marianne made her way back to the esplanade by the castle, eager to get back to Recouvrance at once and tell Jolival what had occurred. The street sloped steeply and the bumpy cobblestones were slippery with damp but she was almost running, Vidocq's words whirling round and round in her head: in a week – ten days at most… and Ledru had not come, might never come! They must do something – find a boat… They could not afford to wait any longer. Something must have happened to Ledru and they would have to make other arrangements…

As luck would have it, old Conan, the ferryman, was on her side of the river, sitting on a rock, smoking his pipe as placidly as if the sun were shining, and spitting from time to time into the water. Marianne was so excited that had he been on the other bank she might very well have jumped straight into the river in her haste to get across. As it was, she was in the boat before the good man had so much as noticed that he had a customer.

'Hurry!' she ordered. 'Take me across!'

The old man shrugged expressively. 'Bah!' he grunted. 'You young folks, always in a hurry. It's a wonder you take time to breathe!'

All the same, he plied his oars rather more energetically than usual and not many minutes later Marianne was scrambling out on to the rocks, tossing the man a coin as she went, and setting off homewards at a run. When she burst, panting, into the house, Jolival was standing by the table, deep in conversation with a fisherman who had just set down his basket full of fresh, steel-blue mackerel. The smell of fish mingled with that of the wood fire in the hearth.

'Arcadius!' Marianne began urgently. 'We must find a boat at once. I have seen—'

She broke off for the two men had turned and she saw that the fisherman was none other than Jean Ledru.

'A boat?' he asked in his placid voice. 'What for? Won't mine do for you?'

Feeling her legs give way beneath her, Marianne sank down on to the settle and undid her heavy cloak, which seemed to have grown suddenly too hot. Then she pushed back the linen bonnet which covered her hair and gave a sigh of relief:

'I thought you would never come – that something had happened to you!'

'No, all went well. Only I had to put in to Morlaix for a few days. One of my men was… sick.'

He hesitated slightly over this explanation but Marianne was too glad to see him to be conscious of any such detail.

'Never mind,' she said. 'You are here now. And you have your boat?'

'Yes, not far from the Madeleine tower. But I'm off again soon, back to Le Conquet.'

'You're going away?'

Jean Ledru indicated the basket of mackerel:

'I'm an ordinary fisherman, come to sell my catch. That's my only apparent motive for being in Brest. But don't worry. I shall be back tomorrow. Is everything ready, as we decided at St Malo?'

In a few words, Arcadius and Marianne told him all that had happened since she had last seen him: Jason's injury, the impossibility of his being in any condition to attempt an escape before another week was out, and the threat which hung over him as soon as he was in a way to be better which left them so small a margin of time in which to get him out. To all this, Jean Ledru listened, frowning and chewing the ends of his moustache with increasing discontent. When Marianne came to the end of her conversation with Vidocq that morning, he slammed his fist down on the table with such violence that the fish leaped on their bed of seaweed and rushes.

'You are forgetting one thing – one rather important thing. The sea. You can't treat that with impunity. The weather in a week's time will have made the Iroise impassable. Your prisoner must be aboard the vessel coming to pick him up at Le Conquet in five days at the latest.'

'What vessel is this?'

'Never you mind. The one that's to take him across the ocean, of course. It will be off Ushant in three days and it can't lie off the coast for long without the coastguard seeing it. We sail on Christmas Eve.'

Marianne and Jolival stared at each other speechlessly. Had Ledru gone mad, or had he understood not one word of all that they had told him? In the end it was Marianne who spoke first.

'Jean,' she said again, very quietly, 'we told you, a week at least before Jason will be strong enough to climb a rope or scale a wall or do any of the other things he will have to do if he is to escape.'

'I suppose he is strong enough, at least, to saw through the chain fastening him to his bed? You tell me you have managed to get all the tools he needs smuggled in to him, and money to buy himself extra food?'

'Yes, we have done all that,' Jolival said quickly. 'But it is still not enough. What would you do?'

'Carry him off, just like that. I know where the prison hospital is, the end building, almost outside the prison itself. The walls are not so high – easier to climb. I have ten men, all used to going aloft in a full gale. To get into the hospital, get your friend out and over the wall will be child's play. We simply knock out anyone who gets in our way. It'll be all over in a brace of shakes. High tide on Christmas Eve is midnight. We can sail on the turn. The Saint-Guénolé will be moored off Keravel. Besides' – he grinned briefly at the two startled faces before him, 'it'll be Christmas Eve – and the guards have their own way of celebrating. They'll be drunk as lords. We'll have no trouble from them. Any other objections?'

Marianne took a deep breath, as if she had just surfaced after swimming for a long time under water. After all these days of doubt and anxiety, Jean Ledru's quiet confidence left her feeling slightly dashed. But, goodness, what a comfort he was! She smiled.

'I'd hardly dare! You wouldn't listen to them if I had, would you?'

'No, I shouldn't,' he agreed seriously, but his eyes twinkled suddenly as he hoisted the fish basket back on to his shoulder, with the crinkling smile which, in this taciturn Breton, was a sign of extravagant mirth:

'Warn the prisoner it's for Monday night. Let him have his chain cut through by eleven o'clock. The rest is up to me. As for yourselves – watch for the boat and when you see her alongside wait until it's dark and then go aboard.'

With a final wave of his hand, the sailor passed out of the house and through the little garden then, with his basket on his shoulder, he set off with great strides in the direction of the harbour. For a little while, the sound of his whistling came floating back to them up the steep, narrow streets, the same, jaunty little tune which Marianne had heard once before, one anguished morning as she stood watching a tiny sailing boat put slowly out to sea, leaving her the captive of Morvan the Wrecker: it was the song of Surcouf's sailors:

The thirty-first of August,

With the larboard watch below,

We spied an English frigate…

Left alone, standing looking at each other across the table on which Jean had left them a few fish, Marianne and Jolival said nothing for a moment or two. Finally, Arcadius gave a shrug and went to fetch himself a cigar from the blue Delft jar. He sniffed it gently for a moment before bending and taking a light from the fire. A rich, tobacco smell filled the room, overcoming the smell of fish.

'He's right,' he said at last. 'It pays to be bold in matters like this. Anyway, we have no choice.'

'You think he will be able to do it?' Marianne asked anxiously.

'I hope so! If he can't, my dear child, nothing can save us. We shall all be hanged at the yard-arm – unless they decide to shoot us instead. There will be no quarter, you know, if we are caught? Are you afraid?'

'Afraid? The only thing I fear, Jolival, is a life without Jason. I care for nothing else, rope or a shot is all one to me.'

Arcadius drew luxuriously on his cigar and then considered the glowing tip of it intently.

'I always knew you had the makings of a great tragic heroine,' he said equably. 'Or else a great lunatic! For my own part, I've no complaints about staying alive and since we've seven saints in the house, I'll ask them kindly to make sure this exciting Christmas Eve which our ebullient captain promises us may not be our last.'

With that, Arcadius strolled out to finish his cigar in the garden while Marianne, left to herself, started unthinkingly to gut the fish.

December the twenty-fourth began badly. When daylight dawned belatedly, it was to reveal dense, yellow fog, thick enough to cut with a knife. Recouvrance, with its grey stone walls and isolated trees, might have been a lost world drifting in some cloudy infinite. Visibility extended no further than the tower of La Motte Tanguy. Everything else, town, port, castle and roadstead, had vanished as utterly and completely as if the hill had loosed its moorings suddenly and sailed away into the sky, like some enormous air balloon.

Marianne, who had not slept a wink all night long, stared out resentfully at the fog. Fate seemed to be taking a malicious pleasure in making things difficult for her. She was angry with fate, angry with nature, angry with herself for her own fidgets, she was even angry with the world for continuing to turn in its ordinary way while she was in such suspense. She was so nervous and complained so many times that they could never see the Salnt-Guénolé even supposing that she was able to feel her way into the river mouth, that in the end Jolival told Gracchus to go and keep watch from the rocks by the castle point on whatever shipping appeared.

This was at about noon and after that Marianne did make some effort to behave normally for the remainder of the crucial day which was to decide the whole course of her life. Even then, she could not refrain from asking the endlessly patient Jolival a hundred times over if he were quite sure that Jason had been warned to hold himself in readiness and if François Vidocq had also been alerted, as he had requested, so that he could help the American while at the same time seizing a heaven-sent opportunity to escape himself. For Marianne was quite sure that Vidocq was not the man to do anything for nothing.

Madame le Guilvinec, who was spending the festive season with her niece at Portzic, came in during the morning to make sure that her neighbour would want for nothing during her absence and also to bring the traditional yule log which was supposed to be put on the fire to burn slowly up to the time for midnight mass. This one was prettily decorated with red ribbons, golden laurel leaves and sprigs of holly, and Marianne was all the more touched by this mark of friendship because she had been careful to give no hint of her intention to leave Brest that night for the last time and had been inclined to look on the niece's invitation as a stroke of luck.

The good lady was so distressed at the thought of leaving her new friends for this, their first Christmas, that she came back two or three times to ask them if they would not rather she stayed, or would like to come with her to her family. However, in the face of their firm, though smiling refusal, she eventually brought herself, with many expressions of regret, to say good-bye, although not without innumerable injunctions to Marianne regarding local customs: the welcome to be given to the youthful carol singers, not to forget to say a prayer for the dead before going off to midnight mass, to have the hearth cakes and the chicken ready for the modest revelllon which should follow and a host of other things, one of the most important of which was a strict injunction to remain fasting until the evening.

'To eat nothing?' Jolival protested. 'When we have enough ado as it is to make her eat like anyone else?'

Madame le Guilvinec raised an admonitory finger to the blackened rafters:

'If she wants to see miracles happen on the holy night, or even if she wants her own wishes to come true, she must take nothing all day long, not until after dark when she can count nine stars in the sky. If she is still fasting when the ninth star comes out, then she can expect to have a gift from heaven.'

Arcadius, being a rational man with a strong aversion to anything that smacked of superstition, might have muttered a little, but Marianne was deeply attracted by this romantic prophecy. It was with eyes suddenly softened that she looked at the widow from Pont-Croix, standing there in her black garments, like some antique sibyl.

'The ninth star,' she said seriously. 'I will wait, then, until it is out. Although in this fog—'

'The fog will go away with the tide. God bless you and keep you, young lady. Nicolas Mallerousse did well to leave his house to you.'

With one last stroke for her cat which she was leaving with her neighbours, she was gone and Marianne, watching her wide, black cloak billowing along the road to the church, felt oddly sad for a moment. Just as Madame le Guilvinec had predicted, the fog was already beginning to clear, blown away by the gusts of wind that had got up, and by the beginning of the afternoon it had gone completely, leaving the countryside restored to all its wild beauty. It was about an hour after this that a lugger with red sails entered the harbour channel below the castle and came on up the Penfeld. The Saint-Guénolé had reached the rendezvous. The adventure had begun.

That evening, when it was quite dark, Marianne, Jolival and Gracchus left the house silently. They locked the door behind them, having taken care to leave a window open and unshuttered so that Madame le Guilvinec's cat, left with ample supplies of fish and milk, might come and go at will. Gracchus skipped lightly over the low garden wall and slid the key under the neighbour's door, along with a note explaining that Marianne and her 'uncle' had been obliged to return to Paris unexpectedly.

It was long after the time when the castle gun and the great bell of the prison had announced the end of work for the day and the church bells had rung for evening prayer, yet the town was not going to sleep as it usually did. The ships of war were dressed overall and as the lights went up on the mastheads so the lighted sterncastles showed that those aboard were keeping their own Christmas Eve. From the taverns came the sounds of lusty voices singing everything from the old Christmas carols down to lewd sea shanties, while the streets were full of people, whole families of them, all in their best caps and bonnets, the men carrying in one hand a lantern and in the other the knotted wooden staff called the pen-bas, and all hurrying off to spend the evening with friends until the time came round to go to church. There were groups of small boys as well, armed with beribboned branches, going the rounds of the houses knocking on doors and singing carols for all they were worth, for the reward of a few coins or a cake apiece. The whole town basked in the aromatic scents of cider, rum and pancakes.

The three of them attracted little notice, in spite of the small box containing Marianne's few clothes and her jewels which Gracchus carried under his arm, beneath his heavy cloak, and her own carpet bag. There was little to mark them out from other pedestrians that night.

Once they reached the other side of the Pont de Recouvrance, the bridge being the shorter way on this occasion, they began to encounter the occasional drunk. The lights of the taverns at the lower end of the rue de Siam, near the harbour, shone out across the pavement, and now and then gleamed on the dark water beyond. Everywhere there was a holiday feeling in the air and only those few vessels that were putting to sea on the tide showed any signs of activity aboard.

Marianne had taken Arcadius's arm and all the way she kept her eyes glued to the dark sky, counting the rare stars that appeared there. So far, she had reached no more than six and Jolival smiled at her worried face.

'If it clouds over, you're likely to starve to death, my child.'

She only shook her head, without answering, then pointed suddenly to where the seventh star had come out, above the tall masts of a frigate in the bay. As for starving, until she had found Jason again she was oblivious of hunger.

At the same time, she caught sight of the lugger, tied up below Keravel, and the figure of Jean Ledru beckoning on the deck. The Saint-Guénolé looked very small alongside the brig Trident and the two frigates, Sirène and Armide, berthed close by, but her very insignificance was a safeguard, as was the single, modest riding light at her masthead.

Seconds later, the fugitives had crossed the plank connecting her with the shore and were aboard. Suddenly, in the yellow light of the ship's lanterns, Marianne found herself the centre of a ring of silent faces which might have been carved out of mahogany, despite the many blond heads and beards among them. Dressed all alike in thick, dark jerseys, their caps pulled well down over their eyes, Jean Ledru's men looked far more like a crew of pirates than of honest seamen, but all their faces wore the same look of grim determination and the muscles beneath the heavy jerseys were certainly like knotty oaks.

'You're just in time,' Ledru grunted. 'You go down below, Marianne, and wait for us. Monsieur, your uncle, will stay with you.'

With one accord, the two persons addressed opened their mouths to protest.

'No!' Arcadius said. 'I'm going with you.'

'Me, too!' echoed Marianne.

It was one of the men, a big, red-headed fellow with something of the look of a large, reddish bear, who voiced immediate opposition to this suggestion:

'It's bad enough, Cap'n, having a woman aboard! If we've got to cart her along with us!'

'You'll not be obliged to cart me, as you put it,' Marianne exclaimed indignantly. 'And if I go with you, I shall be the less time aboard your boat. It is my man you are going to rescue and I want to share the risk with you.'

'And climb the wall, in your petticoats?'

'I can wait at the bottom. I'll keep watch. And I know how to use this, as well…' she added, putting aside the folds of her cloak and showing one of the pistols Napoleon had given her tucked into her belt.

The red-headed seaman gave a shout of laughter:

'By God! If that's the way of it, come you shall! You're a brave lass, after all, and an extra hand is always welcome.'

Jean Ledru, who had disappeared for a moment during this exchange, now reappeared, closing the cabin door behind him. As he did so, Marianne's sharp eyes caught sight of the length of rope coiled neatly about his chest. He glanced quickly round his crew.

'Is everyone ready? Joel, got the rope? You, Thomas and Goulven, the grapnels?'

Three men, the redhead among them, opened their thick jackets simultaneously. One was wrapped about in hemp, like Jean himself, the other two, one of whom was the redhead, who seemed to be called Thomas, had stuck into their belts the long grappling irons which were to be thrown up over the wall.

'We'll be on our way then,' the young leader declared. 'In small groups, if you please, and try and look as natural as you can. You three' – once again he addressed the newcomers – 'you three follow at a little distance, as if you were on your way to spend the evening with friends. And try not to get lost.'

'No fear of that,' Gracchus muttered. 'I know Keravel like the back of my hand. I could get about the place with my eyes shut.'

'Better keep them open, all the same! Otherwise you might run into things you don't expect.'

In small groups, two or three at a time, they left the boat, until the only people left on board were an old man, who answered to the name of Nolff and the cabin boy, Nicolas. Marianne and her escort were the last to leave. The girl's fingers tightened nervously on Jolival's arm. In spite of the cold, she felt as if she were stifling. When they plunged into the unsavoury streets of Keravel, she had the impression that the houses, their overhanging upper stories all crooked and reared up at strange angles, were only waiting to spring on her. This was the first time she had ventured into this area of the town, a place forsaken by God but not by men, and the maze of squalid, twisting alleyways where now and then the red light of a tavern shone through greasy curtains, were obscurely terrifying. Far ahead, as though at the end of a tunnel, a lantern hung, creaking, on a chain stretched between two crumbling buildings, but every dark, shadowy hole and corner in between was filled, she saw with a sick feeling of disgust, with a squeaking, scampering colony of rats, scurrying to and fro among the refuse on the ground. The slender ribbon of sky seemed so far away that there was no hope of even the smallest star.

'You ought to have stayed on the boat,' Jolival said, feeling her shiver, but Marianne pulled herself together instantly:

'No, not for anything!'

They were obliged to make a detour to avoid passing directly in front of the big gates of the prison and the guards on duty there but not long afterwards the little band was stretched out in the shelter of the great, dark walls, hearing the steady tramp of the sentry going his rounds on the footway above. One by one, they passed between the prison and the rope-walks, deserted at this late hour, and, rounding a corner to the right, saw before them a series of barred windows on the far side of a wall distinctly lower than the rest. This was the prison hospital. There was light in the windows, a feeble, reddish glow that probably came from a night light.

On a level with the first of these windows, Jean Ledru assembled his party. Taking off his coat, he began unwinding the rope from his middle. Joel did the same, while Thomas and Goulven unfastened their grapnels. Marianne pointed a little timidly at the window:

'There are bars… How will you manage?'

'You don't think we'll be going in that way?' the Breton said, on a smothered chuckle. 'There's a door on the other side of the wall. We can jump the sentry from the top and flatten him!'

The grapnels were made fast in a moment. The sailors stood back, drawing Marianne and Jolival with them. Jean Ledru and Thomas measured their distances and then, standing with legs well apart for balance, they began to swing the grapnels with the same easy motion.

They were just about to let go when, suddenly, Jean let his go slack and signed to Thomas to do the same. There had come a sound from above. They heard a noise of running footsteps, then lights sprang up in one window after another. Then, without warning, and so close that it felt to Marianne as if the entire wall had exploded, came the report of a cannon being fired, followed by a second and a third.

Throwing caution to the winds, Jean Ledru swore comprehensively and snatched up his equipment:

'There's been an escape! They'll search the prison, then the town. After that the coast and country around. Back to the boat, all of you, fast as you can make it!'

Marianne's cry came like an echo: 'But we can't! We can't go and leave Jason!'

But already the men had scattered, making their own way through the dismal lanes of the old quarter. Seizing Marianne swiftly by the arm, Jean began dragging her firmly away, ignoring her protests:

'It's all off for the present. If we stay here, we'll only get ourselves caught.'

Marianne made desperate efforts to resist, still looking back frantically at the windows, behind which figures were already moving about. The whole prison was awake now. There were sounds of nailed boots running and the dick of weapons being cocked. Someone had got to the bell and was hauling on it like a madman, sending its ominous strokes booming and clanging out over the festive town.

With Ledru on one side of her and Jolival gripping her just as firmly on the other, Marianne was forced to run with them, although her heart was thudding painfully in her chest and her feet were bruised and tender from stubbing them on the slippery cobbles. She raised her tear-filled eyes to the sky and smothered a groan. It was all clouded over and there were no stars at all.

'Faster!' Ledru said gaspingly. 'Faster! They can still see us.'

The black streets of Keravel swallowed them up and, once in darkness, Arcadius halted, still holding Marianne, forcing the younger man to do the same.

'Now what's the matter?' Ledru barked at him. 'We are not there yet.'

'No,' the Vicomte agreed calmly. 'But can you tell me where the danger is now? It is not written on our faces that we have been intending to help a prisoner to escape. Do we look any less like honest folk out to enjoy ourselves than we did on the way here?'

Ledru's panic left him in an instant. He took off his woollen cap and ran his fingers like a comb through his sweat-streaked hair.

'You're quite right. It was the cannon – I think it must have sent me off my head. Of course, we'd much better just walk back quietly. We've had it for tonight, anyway…' He paused, seeing Marianne burst into gasping sobs on Jolival's shoulder. 'I'm truly sorry, Marianne. Maybe we'll have more luck next time.'

'Next time! He'll be dead before then. They'll have killed him!'

'Never think that! We may be luckier than you expect. And it's nobody's fault if some other poor devil had the same idea as us and chose Christmas Eve to show a clean pair of heels.'

He was trying, in his clumsy way, to comfort her, but Marianne refused to be comforted. She pictured Jason, lying on his hospital bed with his chains sawn through, waiting for a rescue that never came. What would they do to him tomorrow when they found his fetters loose? Would the man Vidocq, perhaps, manage somehow to prevent the worst?

The little group had moved on again. Jean Ledru went ahead now, hands in his coat pockets, cap pulled down over his eyes and back hunched forward, eager to have the deck of his ship beneath him again. Marianne followed, more slowly, clinging to Jolival's compassionate arm, her mind still searching feverishly for a way to achieve the impossible and rescue Jason after all. She felt as if every step she took was carrying her inexorably farther away not only from the prison, but also from the man she loved. In the privacy of her hood, she wept, in small, hard sobs that hurt her throat.

When they reached the waterfront, Jean hurried straight to his boat, not without an uneasy sidelong glance at the gendarme who was strolling up and down with hands behind his back with every appearance of a man waiting for something. Jolival bent and spoke quietly in Marianne's ear:

'We had better go back to Recouvrance, child. Wait here, while I go and fetch our bags and find out what has become of Gracchus. He must have gone with the sailors.'

Marianne nodded to show that she had understood and while he made his way to the boat she remained where she was, her arms hanging at her sides, drained alike of all her courage and all capacity for thought. Then, without warning, the gendarme who had been walking towards Jolival had rushed up to her instead and grabbed her by the arm, paying not the least attention to her feeble cry of fright.

'Good God! What are you dawdling here for? As if we weren't in enough danger already. For the lord's sake, get on board! We've been sitting here gnawing our fingers' ends for half an hour waiting for you!'

For a second, Marianne very nearly fainted from shock for underneath the gendarme's cocked hat she had recognized the face of Vidocq. It was Vidocq himself, although scarcely recognizable as the same man. Then all other feelings were swept away in a sudden burst of anger:

'You? You were the one who got away? It is you they are looking for – and meanwhile Jason—'

'Jason is already aboard, you brainless idiot! Up with you, now, and get aboard!'

He half-lifted and half-threw her up on to the deck where the crew was already busy about the business of casting off. Then, while she practically fell into Jolival's arms, he vaulted lightly on to the gunwale and strolled forward to the mainmast where he posted himself conspicuously with one foot on a coil of rope, so as to give the port officers the full opportunity of observing his uniform.

All around them, the agitation in the town seemed to have subsided for the present. The bells were ringing for mass and the good people of Brest, in this instance, were putting God before man.

Just then, the figure of another gendarme hoisted itself out of the cabin. The face was thin, haggard and unshaven under the cocked hat but the eyes were full of laughter.

'Marianne!' he called softly. 'Come! I'm over here!'

She tried to speak, tried to express her joy, but her recent alternations of hope and fear, terror, grief and shock had used up all her resistance. She had just strength to tumble headlong into his arms and he, although barely able to stand upright himself, found somehow the strength to hold her to him. For a long moment, they clung to each other in silence, too happy and too deeply moved for speech. Sails flapped around them, climbing rapidly up the mast. Barefooted sailors ran noiselessly about the deck. Jean Ledru at the tiller gave the faintest shrug and turned his eyes away from the couple who seemed to have forgotten that the world existed.

Vidocq, however, remarked from his observation post: 'If I were you, I should go and sit down under the gunwale where you can't be seen. Even a fool of an exciseman or a drunken soldier might think there was something odd about a policeman going hunting escaped convicts with a woman in his arms!'

Without a word, they did as he suggested and found a sheltered corner where they settled like a pair of lovebirds in a nest. Gently, Marianne took off the ridiculous cocked hat and let the salt wind ruffle Jason's hair. As she did so, she glanced up, automatically, at the sky. All the stars were out, and they were many more than nine.

The night of miracles had kept its promise.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN That Justice be Done

While the Salnt-Guénolé with Jean Ledru's skilled hand on the tiller ran with the wind on her quarter for Cape St Mathieu and Le Conquet and the coast of Brittany slipped by like a ragged ghost in the darkness, François Vidocq explained:

'Late that afternoon, there had been a serious accident in the prison shipyards. A mast which was undergoing repairs in the dry dock had come crashing down on a group of prisoners stacking timber on the quayside. One man had been killed and a number seriously injured. The prison sick bay, somewhat grandly styled the hospital, had been full in a moment, so that Jason Beaufort who was now considered pretty well recovered had been returned at once to the communal dormitories. Fortunately, owing to the haste with which the move was accomplished, the business of chaining him to another prisoner had been put off until the next day and he had merely been fastened to the bail with the rest.

'Knowing what your plans were, I had to get to you fast and warn you that it was all changed, and at the same time not let slip the wonderful chance offered by your vessel. Sawing through Beaufort's chain was a matter of minutes – I'm not without experience at that game.' He grinned. 'My own were done already. The next thing we had to do was to find a way of getting out by the front door. Beaufort could walk. He was sufficiently recovered for that, but not to go climbing walls. So I did the only possible thing – knocked out two gendarmes and stole their uniforms, putting them carefully out of harm's way in a nice quiet place, all neatly gagged and bound.'

'Not as quiet as all that,' Jolival commented sourly. 'It didn't take them long to discover them, to judge by how soon they sounded the alarm!'

The Vicomte was suffering from sea sickness. Stretched at full length alongside a heap of ropes, as much to be out of the way of the boom which swept low across the deck at the end of every tack as to spare himself any unnecessary movement, he lay staring in a determined way at the dark sky, knowing full well that the mere sight of the sea would only make matters worse.

'I'm quite sure they've not been discovered yet,' Vidocq stated categorically. 'They are in the rope loft and no one will set foot there until the morning. And, believe me, I know the way to bind and gag a man.'

'Yes, but the alarm was given—'

'Yes… but not for us! Someone else must have decided to try Christmas Eve to make his escape. It's not something we thought of – he paused – 'but then I suppose we can't claim a monopoly where escape's concerned.'

Marianne cried out at that: 'But then, perhaps they may not be looking for you at all?'

'Oh, yes, they will. Even if they've not discovered the gendarmes yet, they're bound to have noticed our absence very soon. Once the alarm had been given, there was no reason for the others to keep mum. Our best hope is in the fact that they'll probably be looking for us along the coast and in the open country. It's practically impossible for a convict to get hold of a boat, especially one like this, even with outside help. Most of them aren't rich, you know…'

He continued to expatiate for a little while on his private philosophy of escape, its techniques and the various opportunities which could arise, but Marianne soon ceased to listen. She leaned back against the side of the boat, feeling the wind in her hair, with Jason's head in her lap. He was still very weak, and his weakness touched Marianne and gave her at the same time a secret source of joy, for like this he belonged to her completely, he was hers, a part of her, flesh of her flesh like the child she had lost, like the children she would give him…

Neither of them had spoken very much since leaving Brest, perhaps because they had too much to say and also because from now on they had all of life before them. It stretched ahead, limitless as the ocean which was all around them, leaping and jumping at their heels and making deep, moist panting sounds, like a pet animal whose master had returned after a long absence. At one point Marianne had thought that Jason was asleep, but when she bent over him she saw his eyes wide open and very bright and she knew that he was smiling.

'I had forgotten the sea smelled so good,' he murmured, holding the hand which he had not let go for a moment against his rough, unshaven cheek.

He had spoken very quietly, but Vidocq had heard and laughed:

'Particularly after the reek of the last few weeks. Human dirt and human wretchedness – it's the worst stench I know. Worse even than the stink of corruption because corruption is at least new life beginning. Try and forget – put it out of your mind. For you, it's all done with.'

'For you also, François.'

'Who can tell? I was not made for the wide open spaces but for the small world of men's thoughts and instincts. The elements may do very well for you. For myself, I prefer my fellow men. It's not as beautiful, but a lot more varied.'

'And more dangerous. Don't try to be too independent, François. Freedom is the one thing you have always lived for. You would find it in my country.'

'It depends what you mean by freedom…' Changing his tone abruptly, he asked: 'How long before we make Le Conquet?'

Jean Ledru answered him:

'We've a fair wind. In an hour, I'd say. It's not much above fifteen mile.'

They had run up a topsail and a flying jib to the bowsprit and the little craft was now carrying all her canvas, skimming the waves like a gull. On their starboard side, the coast fled past with now and then the squat belfry and roof of a church just visible, or the curious, angular shape of a dolmen. Pointing to one of these, Jean Ledru told Marianne: 'The legend has it that on Christmas Eve, when the clocks strike twelve, the dolmens and the menhirs go down to the sea to drink, leaving all their fabulous treasures uncovered. But woe betide anyone who tries to rob them if he is not quick enough, for on the last stroke they all return to their places, crushing the thief who may be caught inside.'

Marianne laughed, feeling again the pull of a good story which had always formed so strong an aspect of her appetite for life.

'How many legends are there in Brittany, Jean Ledru?'

'As many as the pebbles on the beach, I think.'

The beam of a lighthouse shone out suddenly through the darkness, yellow as an October moon, brooding over the jumbled mass of a huge, rocky promontory nearly a hundred feet high. Their youthful captain jerked his head towards it:

'St Mathieu's light. It is one of the westernmost points of Europe. There used to be a rich and powerful abbey there…'

As he spoke, a faint, uncertain shaft of moonlight filtered through the clouds and showed them the skeleton of an immense church and a great range of ruined buildings spreading out before the lighthouse, giving to that bare headland so gloomy and desolate an air that the sailors crossed themselves instinctively.

'Le Conquet is about a mile and a half to the north of here, is it not?' Vidocq asked, but Jean Ledru made no answer. He was searching the sea ahead. Then, just as the vessel rounded the point, her nose pointing out to sea, the shrill voice of the ship's boy rang out from the masthead:

'Sail ho, on the starboard beam!'

Everyone sat up and looked. Not more than a few cables' lengths away was the dainty outline of a brig, beating up wind with all sails flying in these perilous waters as surely as any fishing boat. Jean Ledru's voice rose above the wind: 'It's them! Get out the riding light!'

Marianne, like the rest, was watching the beautiful craft as it bore down on them, knowing that this was the rescue ship Surcouf had promised. Only Jason had not stirred but lay still, staring up at the sky, locked in a dream of sheer exhaustion. At last Ledru spoke impatiently:

'Well, Beaufort, take a look! It's your ship…'

A tremor ran through the privateer and he started to his feet then and remained, clinging to the rail, staring wide-eyed at the approaching vessel.

'The Witch!' His voice was husky with emotion. 'My Witch . ..'

Seeing him get to his feet, Marianne had followed, instinctively, and now standing next to him, she too stared:

'You mean – that ship is your own?'

'Yes… she is mine! Ours, Marianne! Tonight has given me back the two things I had thought lost for ever: you, my love… and her!'

There was such tenderness in that one short word that for a moment Marianne felt a stab of jealousy. Jason talked of the ship as he might have spoken of his own child. As if, instead of wood and metal, it had been made of his own blood and bone and his joy in looking at it was a father's joy in his child. She tightened the clasp of her hand on his, as though unconsciously trying to regain possession of him, but Jason's whole being was straining towards his ship so that he did not even seem to notice. He turned his head and looked at Jean Ledru, saying sharply:

'Do you know who is sailing her? Whoever he is, he is a master of his trade.'

Jean Ledru uttered a laugh of mingled pride and triumph:

'I'll say he is! A master indeed! It is Surcouf himself! We lifted your ship for you from under the very noses of the excisemen in Morlaix river… That's what made me later than we thought getting to Brest.'

'No,' came a quiet voice behind them. 'You did not "lift" it, as you put it. You took it, with the Emperor's knowledge. Hasn't it struck you yet that the excisemen seem unusually heavy sleepers tonight?'

If Vidocq had been striving for theatrical effect, he had certainly achieved his aim. Forgetting the brig, whose anchor chain could be heard running out and splashing into the sea, Marianne, Jason, Jean Ledru and even Jolival, who revived abruptly, turned with one accord to look at him. It was Jason who spoke for them all:

'With the Emperor's knowledge? What do you mean by that?'

Vidocq leaned back against the mainmast and folded his arms, his gaze going in turn to each of the tense faces turned towards him. Then, with the silky softness which his voice was able to assume when he wished it, he replied:

'I mean that he has given me my chance in these last months, and I am his loyal servant. My orders were to help you to escape at all costs. It has not been easy because, with the exception of our young friend here, everything, men and events, has been against me. But I had received my orders before you were even tried!'

For a moment, no one could say a word. They stood, rendered speechless by amazement, while their eyes struggled to take in what it was that had altered in this extraordinary man. Marianne clung to Jason's arm, still trying in vain to understand, and it was perhaps because it was beyond her power to do so that she was the first to recover her voice:

'The Emperor wanted Jason to escape? But then, why was he imprisoned, sent here…?'

'That, Madame, he will tell you himself. It is no part of my job to reveal to you reasons of State.'

'How can he tell me? You know that in a little while I shall have left France for good.'

'No.'

Marianne thought she could not have heard aright:

'What did you say?'

Vidocq looked at her and she saw a great compassion in his eyes, as he repeated, if possible still more gently than before: 'No. You are not going, Madame. Or not for the present, at least. As soon as Jason Beaufort has put to sea, I am to escort you back to Paris.'

'No! She stays with me! But it's time we had a few things explained. Just who are you?'

Gripping Marianne by the arm, Jason thrust her behind him, as though to make a shield for her of his own body. Her arms closed about him instinctively to hold him to her while he spoke to Vidocq in a voice made hard by anger. Vidocq sighed:

'You know who I am: François Vidocq and, until tonight, a convicted felon with the law on my tracks. But this escape is my last, once and for all, because I have a new life before me now.'

'A police spy! That's what you are!'

'I thank you, no! I am not a police spy. But a year ago I was given my chance, by Monsieur Henry, head of the Sureté, to work inside at tracking down crimes too sordid ever to come to light in any other way. They knew I was clever – my escapes proved that. And intelligent – my instinct for the guilty party showed that soon enough. I was working inside La Force and when you turned up it didn't need more than a glance to see that you were innocent, or one look at your file to show that it was a put-up job. The Emperor must have thought the same thing because my orders came through straightway to drop everything and concentrate on you. Further instructions followed which I adjusted to the occasion. If it hadn't been for that Quixotic gesture of yours, I should have had you away on the journey.'

'But why? What is it all about? You suffered as I did – the chain—the bagne?'

Vidocq's rather hard face lit up in a quick smile:

'I knew it was the last time, for your escape was to be mine also. No one is going to hunt for François Vidocq – or for Jason Beaufort, either. You have earned me the right to stop being an agent who works in secret, hidden behind prison bars and a convict's chains. From this moment, I belong openly to the Imperial police.[2] Everything that was done for you, was done with my approval. One of my men followed the so-called Mademoiselle de Jolival to Surcouf's house at St Malo and, before he left the town, he made known to the baron the Emperor's wish that he should take the brig Sea Witch from Morlaix roads and sail her to a spot chosen by me, but to make it look like a real theft. As you say, I suffered everything with you. Does that look like the action of a police spy?'

Jason's glance moved to Marianne who was still clinging to him. He could feel her whole body shuddering.

'No,' he said dully. 'I don't suppose I shall ever understand Napoleon's reasons, but I owe you my life, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But, what of her? Why must you take her back to Paris? I love her more—'

'More than life itself, than liberty, than anything in the world,' Vidocq finished for him wearily. 'I know all that – and so does the Emperor, undoubtedly. But she is not free, Jason. She is the Princess Sant'Anna… She has a husband, even though that husband may be no more than a phantom, for he is a singularly powerful phantom, and his reach is very long. He is asking for his wife and the Emperor is bound to grant his request or his sister, the Grand Duchess of Tuscany, may well find herself with a rebellion on her hands.'

'I won't!' Marianne cried, clinging closer to Jason. 'I won't go back there, ever again!… Jason, save me… Take me with you! I am afraid of him, and his rights over me – even though I have never seen him. For pity's sake don't let them take me from you!'

'Marianne… darling! Quiet, my love, hush! No, I won't let you go. I'd go back to prison, back to my chains, anything rather than leave you.'

'I'm afraid you will have to, however,' Vidocq said heavily. 'There is your ship, Jason. The Emperor gives her back to you. Your life is with the sea, not languishing at the feet of another man's wife. For the Princess Sant'Anna a carriage waits by the harbour at Le Conquet.'

'Then it had better stop waiting!' A new voice had spoken, thick with anger. 'Marianne stays here!'

Jean Ledru, a pistol in either hand, stepped quickly in between Vidocq and the other two.

'This is my ship, Vidocq! It may be small, but I am master here after God! We have the sea under us and these men are all mine! There are fourteen of us to one of you. If you value your life, let me advise you to let Marianne go with the man she loves. Or, believe me, the fishes won't know the difference between a secret agent and an escaped convict! Now move, backwards, into the cabin. Once they are both aboard the brig, I'll land you on the coast.'

Vidocq only shook his head and pointed to where the brig was now hove to on their bow quarter. Her tall sides loomed higher above the little lugger at every moment:

'You are reckoning without Surcouf, sailor. He knows this woman is married to another, and that other is demanding her. He is a man of honour and he knows where his duty lies.'

'He proved that when he agreed to assist Marianne, even when he could not have known that I was innocent,' Jason said quickly. 'He will help us now.'

'No. Nor should I ask him, if I were you.' He turned to Marianne, ignoring the pair of black muzzles aimed at his middle. 'I appeal to you, Madame, to your own loyalty and sense of honour. Did you wed the prince under any constraint, or of your own free will?'

Marianne's whole body stiffened in Jason's arms, as she fought with all her might to shake off the burden of doom which was descending on her at the very moment when happiness seemed finally within her grasp. She turned and hid her face against Jason's shoulder, saying in a muffled voice:

'I married him… of my own will. But I am afraid of him.'

'You, Jason? Haven't you a wife somewhere?'

'The demon who sought my death and Marianne's? She is nothing to me now.'

'Only your wife in the sight of God and men. Listen to me. If you part now, you may meet again later and be the better for it. For you, Madame, my duty is not to take you to your husband, but to the Emperor who desires your presence.'

'I have nothing to say to him!' Marianne said fiercely.

'But he has. And I cannot believe that you will have nothing to answer him – when he may help you perhaps, both of you, to be free from the ties that hold you. So be sensible. Do not oblige me to use force. Jason cannot be allowed to go unless he goes alone, and on condition that you go with me quietly to Paris.'

Jean Ledru, who had not released his grip on his pistols, laughed shortly and glanced up at the Sea Witch's counter which now towered above them.

'The force is on our side, I think. And I tell you Marianne shall go with Jason and that Surcouf will help me send you to the bottom of the sea if you persist in this… Now, do as I say. Get below! There's a heavy sea getting up and we've no time to lose. The Iroise is no place to sit around and talk, and that low island that you see over yonder is Ushant. You know what they say about Ushant? That whoso shall see Ushant, shall see his own blood flow!'

'Force is not on your side, Jean Ledru. Look there!'

Marianne, whose hopes had risen when she saw the Breton's firm stand, gave a despairing groan. Rounding St Mathieu's Head was a frigate, the moonlight gleaming ominously on the muzzles of the guns protruding from her open ports.

'The Sirène,' Vidocq said in explanation. 'She is under orders to keep a close watch on what passes here. Emperor's orders, although he may not be precisely aware of them. All her captain knows is that on sighting a pre-arranged signal he is to open fire on the brig.'

Jolival, who had remained silent during these exchanges, spoke for the first time. 'I congratulate you. You appear to wield considerable influence – for an ex-convict!'

'The power is the Emperor's, Monsieur. I am only the humble instrument. You know that he does not care to be disobeyed, and it seems he has his own reasons for not relying on this lady's blind obedience.'

Jolival shrugged scornfully:

'A warship cleared for action! And all to drag one unhappy woman from the man she loves! Not to mention that if the Sea Witch is sent to the bottom, you send your famous Surcouf with her!'

'At any moment, Baron Surcouf will be aboard this vessel. See, here he comes now.'

It was true. A rope ladder had been flung over the brig's side, down which a burly figure was clambering like a monkey on a stick, at a speed that said a good deal for his fitness.

'Moreover,' Vidocq continued, 'Madame here is no unhappy woman but a very great lady whose husband is in a position to cause great trouble. I say nothing of Beaufort's importance – but the Emperor would not have been at such pains to rescue him had he been a person of no account. Our good relations with Washington depend on his reaching his own country intact, and with his ship, whether or not he is supposed to be rotting in the hulks. Well, Madame? What is your decision?'

Surcouf had jumped down on to the deck and was striding lightly towards them.

'What are you about?' he called. 'You must get aboard at once. The wind's getting up and the sea's rising. Your men are waiting for you, Monsieur Beaufort, and you are too good a sailor not to know the dangers of hanging about off Ushant, especially when the wind sits in this quarter.'

'Give them a moment more,' Vidocq interposed. 'Time at least to say good-bye.'

Marianne shut her eyes and a tearing sob broke from her. She clung to Jason with all her strength, as though hoping for some miracle from heaven to make them into a single person. She felt his arms holding her tightly, his breath on her neck and in a moment a tear rolled down her cheek.

'Not good-bye!' she implored desperately. 'Not good-bye for ever. I could not bear it.'

Jason tightened his hold. 'Nor could I. We shall be together again, Marianne, I swear it!' The words were whispered close into her ear. 'They are stronger than we are and we must obey. But they are sure to send you back to Italy, and I will meet you there…'

'Meet me?'

In the agony of her grief, the sense of what he said had scarcely penetrated, despite the hope it held.

'Yes. I will meet you, in Venice – in six months. My ship will lie offshore and wait for as long as need be.'

Slowly, he was inspiring her with the same indomitable fighting spirit which he himself had never lost, forcing the words into her ear as if he would have forced them into her mind and, little by little, life seemed to return and her brain began to function once again.

'Why Venice? Leghorn is the nearest port to Lucca.'

'Because Venice is not a French possession. It is Austrian. If your husband will not release you, you must fly there to me. Napoleon cannot touch you in Venice… Do you understand? You will come? In six months…'

'I shall come, but Jason—'

He stopped her mouth with a kiss, infusing into it all the passion of his love for her. When he let her go at last, his blue eyes looked earnestly into her tear-filled ones as he said in a low, vibrant murmur:

'Before God, Marianne, I will never give you up! I want you and I am going to have you. Even if I must go to the end of the world to find you… Jolival, you will take care of her? I have your promise?'

'What else have I ever done?' the Vicomte said gruffly, tenderly receiving on his chest the trembling form given into his care. 'Have no fears on that score.'

Jason turned resolutely and, making his way to Surcouf, bowed gravely.

'I'm no great hand at thanks,' he said, 'but you may command me, Baron, as and where you like. I am your most grateful servant.'

'My name is Robert Surcouf,' the baron retorted. 'Come here and let me embrace you, lad!' And added, for Jason's ear alone: 'Try and come back for her. She's worth it.'

'I have known that for a long time,' Jason said with a fleeting smile, returning the Malouin's vigorous embrace. 'I shall be back.'

Last of all, he turned to Vidocq and offered him his hand, unreservedly.

'We have been through too much together, you and I, François,' he said, 'for us to be aught but brothers. You did your duty, that was all. You had no other choice.'

'Thank you,' Vidocq said simply. 'Don't worry over her. I, too, shall be watching. Come, I'll help you up.'

He indicated the rope ladder, now banging in the rising wind, that climbed the sheer sides of the brig above them. But even as he spoke men were descending on the deck from the American vessel, hoisting up their captain like a parcel. Ledru's men, reaching out to shake Jason's hand in a crushing grip as he was borne past, held the ladder stiff and steady.

Leaning against Jolival, Marianne watched his progress, following him with her eyes until he reached the frieze of human heads and bodies lining the rail above. Jason's arrival on deck was the signal for a rousing cheer which rang like a death knell in Marianne's already breaking heart. To her, it sounded like the voice of that distant country of his, claiming him from her, back again to a place where she was not allowed to follow.

Meanwhile, Vidocq had gone to the lugger's stern and signalled three times by opening and closing the shutter of a lantern, and away beyond the promontory of rocks the frigate was already going about for Brest. Already, the sky above the coast was almost imperceptibly lighter, though the wind was strengthening, filling the sails as they were set once more, and the lugger's crew, armed with long gaffs, fended her off from the brig's side. Jean Ledru was back at the tiller and, slowly, inexorably, the gap of water between the two vessels widened. The lugger slipped astern of the great sailing ship and lay for a moment in the pool of light cast by her two gilded stern lanterns. And there, high above her as she stood unable any longer to restrain her tears, Marianne saw Jason, his tall figure supported by his own men. He raised one arm in a gesture of farewell, but already he seemed very far away… so far, indeed, that for a moment Marianne forgot the promise she had made only a moment before, forgot to be brave, forgot that this parting was not good-bye but only au revoir. She was only a desperate broken woman, seeing the best part of herself borne away from her on the wind. With a last, terrible effort, she tore herself from Jolival's comforting arms and flung herself at the rail.

'Jason!' she screamed, oblivious of the tossing bow wave which drenched her in spray. 'Jason!… Come back!… Come back!… I love you…'

She clung with dripping fingers to the slippery wood, tossing back the sodden tangles of her hair in an automatic gesture. The lugger plunged deeply into a trough of the waves, nearly sending her sprawling on the deck, but all the strength that she possessed was in her clinging hands, her whole life in the eyes which still gazed at the fast-dwindling shape of Jason's ship. At last, two strong arms came to encircle her, drawing her back from her desperate watch, and from the peril in which she stood.

'Are you out of your mind?' Vidocq's voice scolded. 'Do you want to fall overboard?'

'I want to see him again… I want to be with him!'

'And he with you! But it's not a corpse he'd hope to find, it's you, yourself, alive! Good God! Do you want to die before his eyes to prove your love? For the love of heaven, live! Live at least until the time he appointed for your meeting.'

Marianne's eyes widened in amazement. Already the instinct for life was reviving in her, willing her to fight on towards the goal which at this moment had eluded her.

'How did you know?'

'He loves you. He would never have parted from you without something of the kind. Now go and get under cover. You are soaking wet and the dawn mist is rising. It's as easy to die of an inflammation of the lungs as it is by drowning.'

She submitted docilely when he led her to a more sheltered spot on the deck and wrapped a heavy canvas sailcloth about her, but rejected all attempts to make her go below. While Jason's ship was still there to be seen, she was determined not to lose sight of it.

Far out, near the islands with their attendant train of rocky reefs and islets, the Sea Witch was heading out to sea, dipping gracefully under the frail, towering white peaks of her crowded sails. In the grey light of dawn, she looked like a gull, gliding among the black rocks. For a moment, as the vessel went about to pass between two jagged islets, she presented herself to Marianne's eyes broadside on and she recalled then what it was that Talleyrand had told her one day about that figure shaped like a woman on the prow. He had said that the figurehead was carved in her own image, that Jason had had it made to adorn the prow of his ship, and Marianne found herself wishing passionately that she could be that woman made of wood whom he had caused to be created, and on whom his eyes must often rest.

A moment later, the American brig had gone about again and nothing more remained to be seen but the stern, with its two lanterns vanishing into the mist.

Sighing, Marianne made her way to where Surcouf and Jolival were sitting, talking quietly together, on some coils of rope while all around them was the slap of the sailors' bare feet as they went about their duties. In a little while now, the carriage would be bearing her back to Paris, as Vidocq had said, back to Paris and the Emperor. She wondered why he should want to see her. Barely recalling now that she had ever loved him, Marianne could think only that she had no desire to see Napoleon.

Three weeks later, as her chaise clattered under the gateway of the chateau of Vincennes, Marianne glanced up at Vidocq with an expression full of alarm.

'Do your orders say I must be put in prison?' she asked.

'Good heavens, no! It is the Emperor's wish to grant you an audience, that is all. It is not for me to know his reasons. All that I can tell you is that my mission ends here.'

They had completed their journey from Brittany the night before and as he set Marianne down at her own door Vidocq had told her that he would come for her the following evening to take her to the Emperor, adding that court dress was not necessary but that she should be sure to wrap up warmly.

She had been a little mystified by this advice but too tired to ask any questions. Nor had she waited to interrogate Jolival. Instead, she had gone straight to bed, like a drowning sailor clutching at a raft, to recruit her strength for whatever was to come, little enough though it might interest her. Only one thing held any meaning for her: three weeks had gone by, three dreadful weeks spent jolting over the endless roads which the bad weather had made more trying even than usual, on a journey rendered hideous by every conceivable kind of unpleasantness, from lost wheels and broken springs to horses that slipped and fell and trees blown across the road. Yet for all this it was three weeks gone from the six months at whose end Jason would be waiting for her.

When she thought of him, which she did every hour, every second of her waking day, it was with a curious feeling of emptiness, like a painful, insatiable hunger which she tried to satisfy by letting her mind dwell constantly on the few, so very few moments when he had been there, close to her, so close that she could touch him, hold his hand, stroke his hair and smell the odour of his skin, the comforting warmth of him and the strength with which, even in his weakened state, he had crushed her to him and pressed that last kiss upon her lips, the kiss whose memory burned her still, and sent a tremor through all her limbs.

They had found Paris deep in snow. The bitter cold froze the water in the gutters, nipping ears and reddening noses. Miniature icebergs floated on the grey, bustling waters of the Seine and there were rumours that people in the poorer districts were dying of cold at nights. Everything was buried under a thick, white blanket which soon became stained and dirty but did not melt, leaving the gardens dressed in a cloak of dazzling white ermine while it transformed the streets into deadly, frozen sewers where it was the easiest thing in the world for anyone to break a leg. Even so, Marianne's horses, frost-nailed, had negotiated the long road from the rue de Lille to Vincennes without mishap.

The ancient fortress of the kings of France had risen suddenly out of the night, grim and uncared-for, its towers demolished now to the level of the walls. Two only remained intact, the village tower bestriding the ancient drawbridge, and the enormous square keep, its dark bulk rising high above the bare trees, flanked by its four corner turrets. Vincennes was an arsenal, its storehouses guarded by veterans no longer fit for active service and a handful of regular troops, but it was also a state prison and the keep itself was strongly fortified.

Yet now it stood, silent within the circle of its curtain wall, cut off on the right hand by the barbican from the wide, white courtyard where the snow-covered piles of ammunition were like odd, conical cream cakes. Opposite was the derelict chapel, beautiful in the frayed lacework of crumbling stone, decaying slowly because no one thought of repairing it, a precious jewel to St Louis but neglected now, in these days of little faith. And Marianne searched her mind in vain for any reason for this audience, held in the secrecy of this rotting fortress with its sinister reputation. Why Vincennes? Why at night?

At a little distance, a noble pair of twin pavilions faced each other, evoking memories of the Grand Siècle of Louis XIV, although they had fared no better than the rest of the buildings. Panes of glass were missing from the windows, the mouldings of the mansard roofs were broken and the walls seamed with cracks. Yet it was towards the left-hand one of these two that Gracchus, acting on Vidocq's instructions, now turned his horses.

There was a faint light showing on the ground floor, behind the blackened windows. The chaise stopped, and Vidocq jumped out.

'Come,' he said. 'You are expected.'

Marianne looked about her in surprise, her eyes taking in the dismal, comfortless dilapidation of her surroundings. Hugging her black, sable-lined cloak more tightly round her, she pulled the furred hood closer round her face as a biting wind whistled across the court, whipping up handfuls of snow and making her eyes water. Marianne made her way slowly into a tiled vestibule which still retained some traces of a former splendour. The first thing that met her eyes was Rustan. Enveloped in a huge, bright red greatcoat with nothing but the top of his white turban showing above the turned-up collar, the Mameluke was striding up and down on the uneven floor, beating his arms together for warmth. At the sight of Marianne, however, he made haste to open for her the door outside which he had been keeping his energetic guard. At last, Marianne found herself face-to-face with Napoleon.

The Emperor was standing beneath the canopy of an immense hearth on which the better part of a large tree trunk was burning briskly. He was staring down at the flames, one booted foot resting on the hearthstone, one hand behind his back, the other thrust into the breast of his long, grey redingote. His shadow, topped by the curved silhouette of his plain, black cocked hat, innocent of any adornment, stretched fantastically, reared up to the carved and caissoned ceiling on which flakes of the old gilding still remained. That shadow alone sufficed to fill the great empty room, bare of all furnishings except for the frayed ends of ancient tapestries on the walls and a few heaps of rubble on the floor.

He watched, thoughtful and expressionless, as Marianne sank into her formal curtsy, then beckoned her to the fire.

'Come and warm yourself,' he said. 'It's horribly cold tonight.'

In silence, Marianne moved forward and held out her ungloved hands to the blaze, jerking her head back as she did so to let the fur hood slide back from her face. The two of them stood for a moment without speaking, looking down at the dancing flames and letting the warmth seep into their bodies. At last, Napoleon glanced quickly at the girl beside him.

'Angry with me?' he asked, his eyes fixed a little uneasily on the delicate, unsmiling profile, with its lowered lashes and straight lips.

Marianne did not look at him as she answered:

'I should not allow myself to be angry with you, Sire. One is not angry with the master of Europe.'

'Yet that is precisely what you are. And I can scarcely find it in me to blame you. You thought you were going, didn't you? You meant to cut the threads binding you to a life you would be done with, wipe out the past, eliminate everything that had been…'

The green eyes were turned on him then, the faintest twinkle of laughter in their depths. Really, he was the most extraordinary play actor! It was so like him to try and work himself into a rage when he knew that he was in the wrong.

'You need not try to generate an anger which you do not feel, Sire. I am too well acquainted with… Your Majesty. Now that I am here, perhaps Your Majesty will deign to forget whatever it was I meant to do and explain the strange things which have happened in the past months. Dare I admit that I have been very much in the dark, and remain so to this present, indeed?'

'I had not thought you unintelligent?'

'I hope not, Sire. But it would seem that Your Majesty's policies are somewhat too involved for a woman's brain to grasp. And I am not ashamed to admit that I have been able to make nothing of what your judges and your press have been referring to as the "Beaufort affair"… unless it is that an innocent man has suffered unjustly and faced death a dozen times merely to give one of your agents the pleasure and the glory of helping him to escape at last, with your blessing and under the supervision of your imperial navy… and I myself have nearly died of grief! And now, to crown all, you have me brought here by force…'

'Oh ho! Such force!'

'Very well. Against my will, if you prefer. But why?'

Napoleon roused himself from his thoughtful pose and, turning to Marianne, said gravely:

'So that justice may be done, Marianne, and seen to be done by you.'

'Justice?'

'Yes, justice. I have always known that Jason Beaufort was in no way guilty, either of the murder of Nicolas Mallerousse or of anything else. The worst he had done was to take some champagne and burgundy out of France for the delectation of a set of persons whose enjoyment gives me personally no great pleasure. But I had to lay hands on the malefactors – the real malefactors, that is, without destroying the delicate balance of my foreign policies. And in order to achieve that, it was necessary to play the game out to the end.'

'And to risk to the end the possibility that Jason Beaufort might die of his sufferings or the inhuman treatment of your prison guards.'

'I saw to it that he had a guardian angel, and by God! he seems to have done his work well! I had to catch the criminals, I tell you… and then there was that matter of the forged English money which forced me to act or else become a laughing-stock, and incidentally reveal too much about the workings of my own secret service.'

By now, curiosity was to some extent overcoming Marianne's first resentment:

'You say, Your Majesty, that it was necessary for you to catch the criminals? May I ask if you have them now?'

Napoleon merely nodded, but Marianne persisted:

'Your Majesty knows who killed Nicolas Mallerousse, who is the coiner?'

'I know who killed Nicolas Mallerousse and I have him fast, as for the coining…'

He paused and glanced at Marianne's strained face as though undecided. Thinking it advisable to give him some encouragement, she said: 'Was it not the same man?'

'No. The coiner was… myself.'

Marianne could not have been more thoroughly stunned had the ancient ceiling fallen on her head. She stared at the Emperor as if she had begun to doubt his sanity!

'You, Sire?'

'I. My idea was to strike a blow at English commerce by producing, in the strictest secrecy, a large amount of English currency and flooding the market with it. I have no idea how the villains who stowed them on Jason Beaufort's vessel managed to get hold of them, but one thing is certain: they were mine… though I could equally certainly not proclaim the fact. That is why I allowed suspicion to remain on your friend, while in and out of prisons everywhere in France my agents were working in the dark to unravel the truth. It was for the same reason that I had his reprieve made out in advance and laid the best plans I could for his escape. That could not fail. Vidocq is a clever man… and I had no doubt that you would give him a hand.'

'Truly, Sire, we are small things in your hands. I begin to wonder whether a man of genius is a blessing of the gods – or a calamity! But, Sire' – she went on, a note of anxiety in her voice, 'this criminal – or criminals?'

'You are right to say criminals, for there are a number of them, but they have a leader, and this leader – but no – come with me.'

'Whereto?'

To the keep. I have something to show you. But wrap yourself warmly.'

He stooped to pick up Marianne's gloves which she had dropped on the hearth and himself settled the hood once more over her head, his hands reverting instinctively to the old, caressing gestures with which, during those enchanted days they had spent together at the Trianon, he had been used to put on her cloak for her and drape the scarf about her hair. Just as he had done then, he took her arm and led her outside, signing to Rustan to follow as he passed.

Out in the open, the icy wind whirled about them but, leaning close together, they plunged across the vast courtyard, up to their ankles in the snow which crunched beneath their feet. They came to the barbican before the keep and Napoleon made her go before him through the low archway, guarded by two sentries so rigid they might have been frozen stiff. Even their moustaches had icicles on them. On the far side, Napoleon held her back suddenly. In the light of the lantern which hung by an iron bracket from the wall, his blue-grey eyes were very grave, even stern, but there was no hardness in them.

'What you are going to see will be very horrible, Marianne… and altogether exceptional. But, let me say it again, justice must be done. Are you ready to look at what I would show you?'

She met his eyes unflinchingly:

'I am ready.'

He took her hand and drew her forward. They passed through another low arch and found themselves at the foot of the keep, standing on a plank bridge spanning the wide, deep moat. There was a wooden staircase going down into the moat and Marianne looked down, automatically, to where some lanterns were moving about below, to draw back almost immediately with a choking gasp of horror. There, in the trampled snow at the foot of the empty moat, with a guard standing on either side of it, was a sinister wooden framework, like a hideous window made of red-painted wood, with a great triangular blade at its upper end. The guillotine.

Marianne stared at the ghastly instrument with eyes dilated with horror. She was trembling so violently that Napoleon pulled her gently within the circle of his arm and held her close.

'It is dreadful, I know. And none can loathe that fearful thing more than I…'

'Then why…'

'Because it is fitting. In a short while, a man is going to die. He is waiting now in a cell inside the keep and no one, apart from those few who will be present at his execution, will ever know that it took place here tonight, just as no one will ever know how he was condemned. But the fact is that this man is a criminal of an altogether exceptional kind, such a wretch as is rarely found. Last summer, he lured Nicolas Mallerousse into a trap and, with the help of his accomplices, had him carried, gagged and bound to the house at Passy where Jason Beaufort was living at that time, and where he thereafter cold-bloodedly cut his throat. But this killing was only one of his many crimes. Some dozens of my own troops, held captive on the English hulks, have died, torn to pieces by the hounds which this man trained to track them down…'

Marianne had known, ever since Napoleon had told her that he held the criminal, that this was what she would hear. For her own part, she had known for so long that it was he who had killed Nicolas. Yet even now, she found it hard to believe that a man of his diabolical cunning could have allowed himself to be caught. Napoleon's last words, however, had thrown a blinding light even on this.

One doubt, stronger than all reason, Marianne had still:

'Sire! Are you sure that this time there is no mistake?'

He stiffened, embracing her in a glance that was suddenly ice-cold:

'You do not mean to ask me to pardon him, now?'

'God forbid, Sire!… if it is he, indeed!'

'Come. I will show him to you.'

They entered the keep, passed by the guard-room, its door shut for once, and climbed the fine spiral staircase up to the first floor where they emerged into a gothic chamber, the four bays of the roof supported on a massive central pillar. Here, a warder was on guard, and with him was Vidocq, whose tall figure bent double at the sight of the Emperor. At each corner of the room was a heavy, iron-bound door, leading to the cells which occupied the four corner turrets. Napoleon made a sign to the warder:

'Open the hatch. Try not to make a noise. This lady desires to see the prisoner.'

The man walked over to one of the corner turret doors, opened a small judas window and bowed.

'Go on,' Napoleon told Marianne. 'Look.'

She went, reluctantly, over to the door, both wanting and fearing what she would see, yet fearing most of all to find herself looking at a strange face, the face of some poor wretch who, by one of those sleights of hand at which they were so adept, had somehow been substituted for the real criminal.

The circular cell was lit by a lantern standing on a stool. A fire crackled cheerfully in the conical hearth, but the man who lay at full-length on the bed wore chains on his wrists and ankles. Marianne needed no second look to tell her that this was indeed the man whom she had both hoped and feared to see. It was Francis Cranmere, the man whose name she herself had once borne.

He was sleeping, but it was a restless, fevered sleep which recalled to her mind the little Spanish abbé in La Force. It was the sleep of a man who is afraid and whose fear stalks even in his dreams… A fine, white hand came down and closed the window before Marianne's wide, horror-stricken eyes.

'Well?' Napoleon asked. 'It is indeed he, this time?'

She nodded, unable to speak, and was forced to lean back against the wall for a moment, overcome by the turmoil of her feelings, made up of a combination of an awful gladness and at the same time a kind of horror, mingled with surprise at seeing the devil who had so nearly destroyed her own life caught at last. When she had recovered herself a little, she looked up and saw the Emperor standing before her, watching her anxiously, while farther off Vidocq stood motionless against the central pillar.

'So,' she said at last, 'it is for him… the thing I saw below?'

'Yes. And I say to you again: I hate that instrument. I have seen it murder too many innocent people. I am appalled by it and yet that man does not deserve to die, like a soldier, before a firing squad. It is not to you, or even to Nicolas Mallerousse, that I am offering up his head, but to the shades of my own men, slaughtered piecemeal by this butcher.'

'When – when is it to be?'

'Now. See, here comes the priest.'

An old man in a black soutane had emerged from the shadows of the staircase. He held a breviary in his hand. Marianne shook her head:

'He will not want him. He is not a Catholic.'

'I know, but it was not possible to procure a Protestant minister. Besides, what does it matter in the moment of death whose are the lips that speak of God and of the hope of His mercy, so long as the words are spoken?'

The priest gave a little bow and then passed on to the closed door, the warder hurrying before him. Marianne gripped Napoleon's arm nervously:

'Sire!… Must we stay here? I—'

'You do not wish to see? I am not surprised. In any case, it was no part of my intention to oblige you to witness such a scene. I only wanted you to be quite sure that this time justice has not miscarried, and that nothing can halt its course now. Let us go down – unless you wish to bid him farewell.'

She shook her head and almost ran towards the stairs. No, she did not wish to see Francis Cranmere again. She would not triumph over him as he went to his death, if only for fear of seeing the last thoughts of the man she had once loved, a man whose name she had borne, turn to hatred at the sight of her. If repentance were possible for such a man as Francis Cranmere, she would not have its blessed course turned aside for any action of hers.

She went down the stairs, the Emperor following, and across the plank bridge without a glance for the dreadful instrument below, and found herself before long in the great, white desert of the courtyard. The wind, buffeting her body, revived her and she turned her burning face to it. It had begun to snow again and a few flakes touched her lips. She put out her tongue and licked them gratefully and then turned and waited until Napoleon, less nimble than herself, caught up with her. He took her arm and they walked back, as they had come but more slowly now, to the Pavilion de la Reine.

'What of the others?' Marianne asked suddenly. 'Have you caught them as well?'

'Old Fanchon and her crew? You need have no fear. They are under lock and key and there is enough evidence against them to hang them a hundred times over, or send them to rot in prison for the remainder of their lives, without so much as mentioning this business. They will stand trial and pay the penalty in the ordinary way. For him, that was not possible. He knew too much and the English might even now have found a way to free him. Secrecy was vital.'

They were back in the empty room where Rustan was stirring up the fire. Napoleon sighed and removed his hat, from which the melting snow was running in thin streams.

'Now it is time to talk of you. When the roads are somewhat better, you will return to Italy. I must accede to your husband's requests because they are perfectly reasonable. It is not in the Emperor's power to withhold the Prince Sant'Anna's wife from him.'

'But I am not his wife!' Marianne protested wildly. 'You know quite well that I am not, Sire! You know the reason why I married him! The child is no more… therefore there is no longer anything to bind me to this – this… shadow!'

'You are his wife, even if only in name. I do not understand you, Marianne. It is not like you to turn your back on your duty. I thought you so gallant. You accepted the aid of this poor devil… for so he must be in the conditions by which he has chosen to live… and now that you can no longer fulfil your part of the contract, you have not even courage enough to face him honestly. I am surprised at you…'

'Say disappointed, rather! But I can't help it, Sire. I am afraid! Yes, I am afraid of that house, of what it contains, of that man whom no one ever sees and the evil which hangs about him. All the women of that family have died violent deaths. I want to live, and be with Jason again!'

'There was a time when you wanted to live for me,' Napoleon observed with a touch of sadness. 'How things change! How women change… I think, in the end, my love was greater than yours, for all my feelings for you are not yet dead, and if you would…'

Marianne lifted her hand quickly to stop what he would have said. 'No, Sire! In a moment you are going to offer me the – the solution to my problem that Fortunée Hamelin suggested to me once. It might satisfy Prince Sant'Anna, but I mean to keep myself now for the man I love… whatever risks that may involve.'

'Very well.' Napoleon sighed. 'We will speak no more of it.' From the curtness of his tone, Marianne knew that she had vexed him. Perhaps, in his masculine pride, he had thought that an hour with him might help to soften her longings for Jason and bring her back, chastened and obedient, to the path which he had no doubt designed for her.

After a brief silence, he resumed: 'You must go back, Marianne. Both honour and policy demand it. You must go back to your husband. But do not be afraid. Nothing will happen to you.'

'How do you know?' Marianne said, more bitterly than politely.

'I shall be watching. You shall not go alone. Apart from this curious old fellow who seems to have adopted you, you shall have an escort… an armed escort which will remain with you and act as you think fit.'

Marianne's eyes opened wide:

'An escort? For me? But on what pretext?'

'Shall we say… as Ambassadress Extraordinary? In fact I am sending you not to Lucca but to Florence, to my sister Elisa. You may easily sort out your differences with your husband without incurring the least danger because I will charge you with messages for the Grand Duchess of Tuscany. I mean my protection to extend to you there, and to have it known.'

'Ambassadress? I? But I am only a woman?'

'I have frequently employed women on other occasions. My sister Pauline knows something of that! And I should not wish to hand you over bound hand and foot to the man you have – yourself – chosen to marry.'

The implication was sufficiently obvious. She was to understand that had she, Marianne, showed more sense, she would have trusted her then lover to provide for her and not gone plunging off into impossible adventures… Judging it better to make no reply, she merely bowed and then sank into the ritual curtsy.

'I shall obey, Sire. And I thank Your Majesty for your care of me.'

Mentally, she was calculating that once in Florence it would be easy for her to reach Venice, much easier than she had feared. She had, as yet, no idea how she meant to settle her differences with Prince Corrado, or what form of arrangement he intended to suggest, but one thing was certain: she would never again live in the great, white villa, beautiful and deadly as one of those exotic flowers whose perfume enchanted but whose juice could kill.

Of course, there was still the matter of the escort. That would have to be got rid of…

The door opened suddenly and Vidocq came in. He merely bowed, gravely, without speaking. The Emperor's body stiffened. His eyes turned to Marianne and met hers and she held his gaze steadily, feeling the colour drain from her face in spite of herself.

'Justice is done!' was all he said.

But Marianne knew before he spoke that Francis Cranmere's head had fallen. Slowly, she dropped to her knees on the stone floor, feeling it warm from the fire, and with bowed head and hands clasped together, began to pray for the man who would never again have power to harm her.

Rather than disturb her prayers, Napoleon moved away silently into the shadows.

The cannons were booming through Paris. Marianne listened to the salvos, standing at the window, with Adelaide and Jolival, counting the number.

'Two… three… four…'

She knew what they meant. The Emperor's child was born. Even before this, in the middle of the night, the great bell of Notre-Dame and the bells of every church in Paris had called to every Frenchman to pray to heaven for a happy issue and in the capital there had been no more sleep for anyone, for Marianne least of all for this was the last night she would spend in her own house.

Her trunks were packed and loaded already on to the great travelling carriage and in a little while, when the promised escort arrived, she would take the road for Italy. The letters she was to present to the Grand Duchess of Tuscany lay on the chest, in all the glory of their red seals and ribbons. The furniture of her bedchamber was already clad in its uniform of dust sheets. There were no flowers in the vases. But Marianne's heart had quitted this house long ago.

Jolival, as nervous as she, was counting aloud. 'Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen… If it is a girl, they say she will have the title of Princess of Venice.'

Venice! It was no more than three months now before Jason's ship would drop anchor in the lagoon. The very name, delicate and colourful as the scintillating glassware of the city's own craftsmen, became clothed in all the varied brilliance of hope and love.

'Twenty…' Jolival counted, '… twenty-one…'

There was a pause, brief but so intense that it might have seemed as if the entire Empire were holding its breath. Then the brazen voices resumed their triumphant clamour.

'Twenty-two! Twenty-three!' Jolival shouted. 'There are going to be a hundred and one! It is a boy! Long live the Emperor! Long live the King of Rome!'

His cry was echoed and magnified as though by magic. Everywhere could be heard windows being flung open, doors slamming and shouting from innumerable throats as the people of Paris poured out into the streets. Only Marianne did not move but stood with eyes closed. So Napoleon had the son he so desired! His pink Austrian brood mare had done what was expected of her. How happy he must be! And proud! She could imagine him making the palace ring with the metallic tones of his voice, the nervous click of his heels… The child was born, and it was a boy… the King of Rome! A fine name, a name to evoke the mastery of the world! A heavy name, too, to lay on such tiny shoulders.

'Come, Marianne! We must drink to this happy birth!'

Arcadius had already loosed the cork from a bottle of champagne and was filling glasses, handing one to each of the two women. His sparkling gaze went from one to the other as he raised the clear crystal glass with the pale golden liquid foaming within: 'The King of Rome!… And to you, too, Marianne. To the day when we shall drink to a son of yours! He will not be a king, but he will be handsome… strong and brave like his father.'

'Do you really think so?' Marianne asked. Her eyes moistened even at the thought of so much happiness.

'I do more than think it,' Arcadius said seriously. 'I am certain of it.'

Draining his glass, he sent it spinning over his shoulder in the Russian fashion to shatter against the marble chimney breast.

'As certain as I am that I have broken that glass.'

Intrigued and not a little amused, the two women followed his example. Then Marianne said:

'Assemble the servants, Arcadius, and have them drink champagne also. I want to leave them happy, because I shall come back to this house happy, or else not at all. And now I am going to dress.'

And she left the room to make ready for the long journey ahead of her. Outside, above the joyous clamour of the cheering Parisians, the cannons were still thundering.

It was the twenty-first of March, 1811.