'I wasn't to be let in, it seems, citizen minister,' the Corsair grumbled loudly leading Marianne to one of the unprepossessing chairs. 'Care to tell my why?'
Fouché choked, spilling his scalding tisane over his fingers. It was several moments before he was able to speak. While the servant hastened to mop him down, he pushed the cup irritably from him.
'For the love of heaven, my dear baron, when will you lose this detestable habit of bursting in on people like a tidal wave?'
'When people learn to treat me with courtesy! Why did you see fit to deny me entry?'
'But I have not denied you entry. I was expecting Mademoiselle Mallerousse and I gave orders accordingly. I had no idea you would escort her here. Do I take it you've turned nursery maid?'
'By no means, but when I undertake something, I see it through. I want to know what you are going to do with her. And I shall not go away until I do.'
With that, demonstrating his firm resolve to miss nothing of what was to come, Surcouf sat down on another of the hard chairs, folded his hands on top of his cane and waited. Marianne repressed a smile. The man was irresistible! And, certainly a great comfort. One could follow him to the ends of the earth with absolute confidence. Fouché, however, sighed elaborately.
'Anyone would think I was some kind of ogre! What do you think I'm going to do? Send her back to St Lazare? Shut her up in a convent or send her off as a camp follower with the Guard? Can't you trust me just a little?'
Surcouf said nothing but his expression left his trustfulness in some doubt. Fouché raised one eyebrow, took a pinch of snuff and then continued silkily:
'Have you anything against the Duchess of Otranto? I would remind you that having four children of her own, my wife is a perfectly proper person to have the care of a young woman. For, to cut a long story short, I intend to give our young friend who comes to me with a strong recommendation of an old comrade of my own, into her charge. Are you satisfied?'
Whether he was or not, the Corsair said nothing but Marianne repressed a look of distaste. The idea of living in this house with its police court atmosphere did not appeal to her at all, especially since, apart from Black Fish's recommendation, she could not understand why Fouché should show such interest in her. Perhaps she was being highly honoured and no doubt she should be very grateful but this was not what she had come to Paris for.
'I thought,' she began timidly, 'that I might go to live with my cousin d'Asselnat—'
'And even last week, that might have been possible. Unfortunately, since then, your cousin has brought some trouble on herself. She is no longer in a position to take care of you.'
'What does that mean?'
'That she set out five days ago for Auvergne where she will remain under house arrest. Before that, I may add, she had been for three days a guest of the police in the Madelonettes prison.'
'In prison? My cousin?' Marianne exclaimed, startled that fate should apparently be leading all the last bearers of her name into dungeons. 'But what for?'
'For throwing a letter reflecting upon the conduct of the Emperor's private life into his majesty's carriage. Considering the somewhat violent tenor of this missive, we deemed it best, for her good as much as for our own, that Mademoiselle Adelaide should be sent to recover her temper in the peace of the countryside.'
'Then, I will join her there!' Marianne announced firmly.
'I should not advise it. Do not forget that you are at present, under your real name, an émigrée entering the country illegally and therefore subject to severe penalties. It is best that you should remain Mademoiselle Mallerousse – and so quite unconnected with your cousin. Moreover, her opinions are not such as I would wish you, for your own safety, to share.'
With this, Fouché appeared to consider the subject closed. Turning to Surcouf, who had been awaiting the end of this dialogue with furrowed brow, he gave him his most attractive smile.
'I think, my dear baron,' he purred, 'that you may now make your farewells to our young friend before I present her to the duchess.'
But Surcouf did not budge from his chair.
'So the cousin's in disfavour, very well,' he said distinctly, 'but there is another member of the family. You have not, I think, placed the Empress under arrest?'
'Poor soul!' Fouché's sigh told the extent of his compassion for Josephine. 'I did think of her, but to be honest with you, the reports I am receiving from Malmaison are not encouraging. The poor Empress weeps day and night and will receive no one but her particular friends. She is really in no state to be burdened with anyone else, especially a distant connection she has never seen. I believe we must let a little time elapse. Later, when her majesty is more herself, I shall certainly inform her. Until then, mademoiselle Marianne must be content with our protection—'
Fouché rose, seeming to indicate that the interview was at an end, but continued to forage among the papers on his desk. He soon found the letter he was looking for and, after a glance at its contents, he remarked:
'In any case, my dear baron, I think that your own stay in Paris will not be prolonged. You will be anxious to return to St Malo. I have here a report of a pretty feat carried out by one of your men. Gauthier, captain of the Hirondelle, has been to Guernsey and recovered your brig the Incomparable, captured in November, from under the very noses of the English.'
'Is that true?'
This time, Surcouf was on his feet in an instant, his eyes shining with joy. His face was flushed and the suspicion which could have been read openly on it a moment before had vanished as by a miracle. Marianne thought, a little sadly, that he was looking at the minister as if he were a messenger from heaven, and that she herself was almost forgotten. But, to a sailor, what was the passing attraction he had felt for her compared to what was the very essence of his soul, his ship and his men? Already, he was picking up the hat he had placed on the cupboard.
'I'll take the night mail! Thank you my dear minister. You have given me the best possible news. It remains only for me to bid you farewell—' He turned to Marianne and bowed. 'And you also, mademoiselle,' he said in a soft voice. 'I leave you in good hands and wish you the very best of luck. Do not forget me!'
He was going away, he was leaving Paris, leaving her in this disagreeable place! A little bitterness crept over Marianne. She discovered that she had grown used, astonishingly quickly, to this solid, reassuring and utterly reliable friend. Perhaps because he reminded her of Black Fish. Now, he was going back to his own affairs, leaving her to her fate, and tomorrow, perhaps sooner, he would have forgotten her completely. She realized, instinctively, that this man was a rare beast. There was a scent about him of fresh air, freedom, of joie de vivre, while when she looked at Fouché's pale, narrow face she found herself thinking, she could not have said why, of dimly lit chapels, whispering voices, the reek of incense and secret confidences. Later, learning that Fouché had been destined for the church and educated at the Oratory in Nantes, she would recall this impression and understand it better.
Forcing back the disappointed tears, she held out both hands in a spontaneous gesture to the friend who was leaving her.
'Thank you for everything! And write to me, please.'
He gave her a quick smile and caught her outstretched hands in a grip that almost made her cry out.
'I promise! Only, you must forgive me if I write badly. I am no man of letters but, for your sake, I would do things still more difficult. If you are ever in need of anything, call on me. I will come running.'
Dropping a quick kiss on Marianne's suddenly icy fingers, he picked up his cane and left the room without a backward glance. Fouché's eyes followed him inscrutably. As the door closed behind him, the minister sighed.
'Well, there is pure, disinterested devotion for you. I congratulate you. Surcouf is a big fish and by no means an easy one to unhook. I thought I should never manage to get him away from you. But, now that it is done at last, we can have a serious talk, you and I.'
'Were
we not talking seriously before?'
'Yes and no—'
As he spoke, Fouché rang a small bell on his desk. A little, yellow-complexioned, hollow chested man all dressed in black came in, bearing a portfolio under his arm, and murmured something in the minister's ear. This was Maillocheau, his secretary.
'Very well,' Fouché said. 'Take him in the other way. I'll come at once.'
With a courteous apology for the fact that he was obliged to desert his visitor for a few moments, Fouché stepped into an adjoining room, leaving the door sufficiently wide open for Marianne to see something of the room beyond. It was a small room, simply furnished, and at first Marianne gave little attention to it. She had no particular interest in Fouché's sudden visitor, assuming it to be some police matter. A criminal to interrogate, perhaps. Yes, for she heard dragging footsteps and also the clink of chains. The man must be in fetters. Marianne shivered and made an effort to turn her eyes away from the door and look at the window. But Fouché was speaking and what he said soon forced itself on the girl's attention.
'You are the Baron Hervé de Kérivoas, are you not?'
'I am.'
'You are also a Chouan known by the name of Morvan. Your manor in Brittany has been used before now as a link between the insurgents and the committee in London. More recently, you have sheltered Armand de Chatêaubrieant—'
There was no answer. The man was maintaining an obstinate silence. But Marianne had risen and gone quietly to the door. Two steps were enough to show her the prisoner standing full in the light. The figure was certainly Morvan's although this time it was moulded by a green coat and light grey kerseymere pantaloons tucked into top boots. But now, for the first time, she saw his face.
It was a dreadful sight, disfigured all down one side by a great scar that made a ruin of one cheek, dragged at the eye and disappeared into the hair that Marianne now saw to her surprise was short, fair and curly. The dark lovelocks she remembered must have been a wig. Only the unnatural brilliance of his eyes and the strong, mocking lines of his mouth did she recognize the man who had held her captive.
Morvan seemed perfectly at ease. He stood before Fouché, his fettered wrists held before him, contemplating his interrogator with an air of utter boredom, as though he were merely obliged to be present at some scene which did not concern him.
Fouché continued. 'It is not, however, for your activities as a Chouan that you have been arrested and taken to Vincennes where you have been, I believe, for four days now.'
Morvan bowed in silence.
'Information has been laid to the effect that you are the leader of the band of wreckers operating in that region. Have you anything to say?'
Still no answer. Morvan merely shrugged. The silence that followed weighed heavily on Marianne. Outside, a carriage rumbled along the quai but she scarcely heard it. She was looking at the wrecker's ravaged face, amazed to see the pride in it. Morvan seemed to her a nobler figure standing there, with fettered hands, flanked by the two gendarmes than in his black mask on the shore amid the raging storm. Again, came the minister's chill voice.
'You prefer to say nothing? As you like. Take him away. The magistrates may get something out of him.'
Marianne did not see Morvan go. She had only just time to regain her seat before Fouché came back into the room and shut the door behind him. He took snuff leisurely. Marianne, struggling to appear calm, was uncomfortably conscious of his eyes resting heavily on her, yet she dared not meet his gaze. Ever since Surcouf had left the room she had felt alone and defenceless. The sight of Morvan had completed her sense of bewilderment. She heard Fouché say:
'Good. Now we are alone. First, let me restore these to you.'
His hand felt for a moment in one of the drawers of his desk and emerged holding something glittering which he placed on the table. To her amazement, Marianne saw her pearl necklace and the locket containing the Queen's hair.
She made no move to take them, only stared at them in silence. Fouché laughed.
'Wake up! They are yours, aren't they?'
'Yes – but – how did you get them?'
'Off the gentleman you saw in there between the two gendarmes. You did see him, I suppose? I had him out of his cell at Vincennes on purpose to let you see him. I was well aware I should get nothing out of him. He will, I may say, not be going back to Vincennes.'
'Why not?'
'Because on the way back he is going to escape – with some little assistance on our part.'
This time, Marianne was utterly at a loss. Fouché's face was half hidden from her by the gathering dusk but she could feel his eyes on her and knew he was smiling. His smile only added to the fear that was mounting in her and when she spoke it was in a voice devoid of colour.
'You are going to let him escape? That wrecker? But why?'
'Because he is more use to me free. It would, by the by, be best for you to avoid an encounter with him. He believes he owes his arrest to a young woman sent from London by the royalist committee—'
Marianne felt the colour drain from her face. Fouché gave her a moment or two to assimilate this information before adding smoothly:
'I should not let it worry you too much. You have nothing to fear while I'm here. I know everything – and nothing is impossible for me. You will be quite safe, provided you are careful – and do exactly as I tell you.'
The last words were spoken very slowly and distinctly and now, at last, Marianne understood. Her fate, her future and her very life were in the hands of this cold, pale man; beneath his kindly manner, he was playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse. She cast one anguished glance towards the door. It was shut and Surcouf had gone. She was alone, more alone even than she had been in her prison cell in St. Lazare. A servant came in to light the candles on the desk and a golden light sprang up in the lofty room, softening the heavy green curtains. Marianne knew that she was helpless. She had no choice but to do as this man willed because she could not resume her own identity without exposing herself to the penalties of the law, or try to escape without the risk of coming face to face with either Jean Le Dru or Morvan, two men who were her deadly enemies. The trap had been well sprung! She understood now what it was to be a great policeman, it meant someone completely unscrupulous.
She felt suddenly tired and almost cold. She put a trembling hand up to her eyes in a pathetic, childish gesture as though to brush away a veil of mist that obscured her sight. Fouché's voice came to her from an immense distance.
'Come now! Don't upset yourself. Whatever you may imagine, I wish you no harm. Merely, I need someone like you.'
'Politics is a tricky business, full of traps for the unwary. By trusting you with a message of such importance, Nicolas involved you, perhaps without being fully aware of it. You are just the person I need and you have within you all you need to win your battle with life. Listen to me. Do as I say and I promise you that you will not only have nothing more to fear from the law in England, but will also rise to the most enviable position. Here, fortunes are made and lost very quickly. Will you serve me and try your luck?'
There was a hypnotic quality in Fouché's voice which both allayed Marianne's physical terror and, at the same time, chilled something within her. There was no mistaking the real meaning to his words. It was blackmail, pure and simple. Either she did as Fouché wished, and she was well aware that he had only helped and comforted her in order the better to bend her to his will, or she could reject his proposals and perhaps find herself abandoned to the snares and dangers of these unknown streets. Unless, of course, she was simply sent straight back to St Lazare to heaven knew what fate! In any case her choice was very limited. She could hardly go on plunging blithely forward to a fate she could not even guess. Perhaps, after all, it might be best to let herself be guided by this man who, dangerous as she guessed him to be, was still the person to whom Black Fish had sent her. There remained to be discovered precisely what it was he wanted of her.
Marianne looked
up. Her green eyes sparkled through a veil of tears as she met the minister's opaque gaze.
'What must I do?'
Fouché leaned back in his chair, placed his fingertips together and crossed his thin legs.
'I told our friend Surcouf that I meant to entrust you to my wife's keeping merely in order to get rid of him. In fact, I have already found you a situation.'
'A situation? Where?'
'With the Prince of Benevento otherwise vice-grand-elector of the Empire, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord. His wife has need of a reader – and his house is one of the greatest in Paris, perhaps the greatest. For me, at any rate. You cannot conceive how much I like to know of what goes on in such houses.'
Marianne's cheeks flushed with anger and she sprang to her feet, trembling.
'A spy! No, indeed! I will never stoop to that!' Fouché appeared quite unaffected by her excitement. Without even looking at her, he jotted something down on a piece of paper then picked up a spoon from a small silver-gilt tray on which was also a carafe and a glass. He tipped some white powder from a small envelope into the spoon and swallowed it, with a mouthful of water. Then he coughed.
'Ahem! It is up to you, child. I have no wish to force your hand but you should remember, I think, that if St Lazare is no very agreeable dwelling place for a young girl, the English prisons are on the whole rather worse – especially when there is a noose at the end.'
The words fell as inexorably as a sentence.
Marianne sat down again, feeling as though her legs had been cut from under her.
'You would not do that?' she murmured in a choked voice.
'What? Hand you over to the English police? No. But, just supposing Mademoiselle Mallerousse were unwise enough to behave as though she were Mademoiselle d'Asselnat, I should have no choice but to carry out the law. Now, the law gives me two alternatives: to imprison you or to put you back on a boat—'
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