The Dark Secret of Josephine

The deliberations took some time but it was finally decided not to answer. Instead, twenty-four Representants were nominated to go out and fraternize with the Sections and attempt to pacify them individually. By this time it was half-past four and, having received no reply, General Danican gave the order to attack. Thereupon Buonaparte sent eight hundred musket and cartridge boxes to the Convention Hall with the suggestion that the Deputies should cease talking and come out to help defend themselves.

For some hours past the Convention troops had been under severe provocation, and General Carteaux had, with Buonaparte's approval, even withdrawn his men from the Pont Neuf to the Quai des Tuileries rather than have them shed first blood. But now a company of insur­gents that had taken up its position on the steps of the Church of St. Roch began to fire down on Buonaparte's gunners.

Reluctant as he was to have his name associated with killing French­men, now that he was left no option he acted swiftly and ruthlessly. In a few minutes blasts of grape-shot from his cannon rendered the steps of the church a tangled mass of dead and dying. Ordering the guns to be swung about in sections back to back he then had them sweep both ends of the Rue St Honore for its whole length with their devastating fire. His horse was shot under him, but the faithful Junot ever at his side, got him another and, leaping on to it he personally led a company of 'patriots' into the nearest fray.

In the hour that followed, his extraordinary instinct for directing a battle sent him from point to point so that he appeared as though miraculously at every place where danger threatened. At each he rallied the troops, ordered a charge or himself directed the fire of the nearest cannon, so that they mowed down the heads of the packed columns of the insurgents.

The most determined attack was made from the east where some eight thousand men endeavoured to force their way past the Louvre. Their object was to join up with the troops of the Comte de Maulevrier in the Rue Dauphme, and the column on the Pont Neuf led by a young Royalist named Lafond, who showed great gallantry. But

Buonaparte deployed several batteries on the Quai des Tuileries and, by blasting both the exits of the streets and the bridge, drove the insurgents back everywhere in hopeless confusion.

By six o'clock the conflict was over, and the final dispersion of the great mobs that had gathered was brought about by a continued firing of the cannon, but with blank ammunition. There remained only three strong points—the Place Vendome, the church of St. Roch and the Palais Royal—in each of which bodies of the insurgents had fortified themselves. These Buonaparte promptly surrounded, and a few musket shots the following morning proved sufficient to bring about their surrender.

Barras and Buonaparte both received a tremendous ovation from the Convention, which they had undoubtedly saved. The former was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Interior. The latter, whose name for the first time became one of national significance, was given the post of Second in Command, which transformed him overnight from an obscure Brigadier, suspended and penniless, to a highly paid and influential man in the second rank of France's Generals.

Roger, by an apparent eagerness to help, and a great display of activity, had succeeded in retaining Barras's esteem without having had actually to participate in the fighting. There had been no means by which he could influence the battle in favour of the monarchists; so he had had to watch their defeat while riding to and fro with Barras and cheering lustily on every suitable occasion.

Consequently, with a dozen others, he came in for a minor share of the triumph; and, when the story of his escape from the Army of Conde got about, scores of his old acquaintances welcomed him back to Paris. As he had no post Barras promptly gave him one, with the rank of Colonel, in his new office; and nothing could have suited Roger better, as the job was a sinecure having no

hours and few duties, yet gave him access to all the papers concerning the Army of the Interior.

Thus, by having inadvertently backed the right horse at what had appeared to be the wrong moment, he now found himself more safely entrenched in the favour of the men who governed France than he ever dreamed could again be possible. Yet he was quick to realize that it was only at a price—it had now become impossible to carry out his intentions.

Within twenty-four hours it became clear that, having triumphed, the Convention intended to pursue a policy of conciliation rather than revenge. A few of the most belligerent Sections were disarmed and the National Guards of the others placed under Buonaparte; but, except for Lafond, who had been captured and stubbornly refused a pardon, the leaders of the insurgents were permitted to escape. Against the jeunesse doree no move was made at all. They were allowed to continue going freely about Paris wearing the reactionist colours of black and green, and to boast unchecked in the salons of the bravery they had displayed in facing the 'little ragamuffin's' cannon; so in a very short time, apart from those who mourned four hundred dead, all trace that there had been of an insurrection disappeared from the capital and it resumed its feverish post-Terror gaiety.

Nevertheless, the fact remained that the Monarchists and the Moderates had shot their bolt They had never had an acknowledged leader or formed a coherent party, but were a score of groups with different aims knit loosely together only by a mutual hatred of the Convention. Their numbers and readiness to rise, had they continued to simmer for a few weeks longer, would have made an excellent lever for Roger to persuade two or three of his old colleagues who still had real power to collaborate with Pichegru. But now that the discontented had blown off their steam, months must elapse before they were ripe for another outbreak; and men like Freron, Dubois-Crance, Tallien or Boissy d'Anglas were not going to risk their necks by arresting the die-hard members of the Committee of Public Safety unless they could be assured of immediate popular support.

An even greater obstacle to the fulfilment of Roger's plans had emerged in the person of Buonaparte. This swift-thinking, resolute young man would neither have panicked nor sat still when he learned that the conqueror of Holland had left the Rhine and was marching his army on Paris. His readiness to defend the Convention, although it had treated him ill, showed where his sentiments lay; at all events for the present With every man he could muster he would have marched out of Paris and given battle to Pichegru; and who could say which of them would have proved the victor?

These considerations decided Roger that there was nothing really worthwhile that he could do by remaining in Paris; yet he felt that it would be a mistake to leave the city precipitately. Should he do so without giving any adequate excuse, his disappearance was now certain to arouse considerable comment, and after another prolonged absence it would be more than doubly difficult to lie his way back a second time into the sort of position he held; in fact he could not possibly hope to do so. The limitation of his commitment to Mr. Pitt made it unlikely that he would wish to return; but all the same, it seemed like repudi­ating the good fortune with which he had been favoured by fate, not to consolidate his gains before, in due course, retiring smoothly from the scene with an aura of goodwill about him.

In consequence, as his duties with Barras entailed little more than appearing on public occasions in a fine uniform as a member of that ostentatious potentate's staff, he shaved off his whiskers and moustache, and spent most of his time cultivating the society of the day. Many doors were already open to him, and through them he passed to others; so that within ten days he had become an accepted frequenter of the leading salons in Paris.

Tallien had been known to Roger ever since the desperate night upon which the legally elected members of the Municipality of Paris had been violently deposed to make way for the Commune, and during die even more desperate days of Thermidor they had risked their lives together to bring about the fall of Robespierre. As an opener of doors, no one could now have served better; for, not only had he just been made the head of a Committee charged with governing until the new Constitution came into force, but as Fouchg had informed Roger, his wife had become the most influential woman in Paris.

Theresa Tallien was the daughter of the Spanish banker Francois Cabarrus, and the divorced wife of the Comte de Fontenay. Talhen, while deluging Bordeaux in blood as a Representant en Mission, had seen her, fallen in love with her on sight, saved her from the guillotine and, after the fall of Robespierre, married her. In the meantime, by her influence over him she had saved many other people; and such was her beauty, compassion and grace that she had become known as 'Our Lady Thermidor'.

Recently she had taken a large house called the Chaumiere right out in the market garden area between the Rond-point and the Seine, and had had it done up to look like a stage farm. In spite of its being so far from central Paris all the smart world now flocked to it; so in her salon there Roger met numerous old friends and made several new ones. Among the latter was a ci-devant Marquise of great intelligence and charm named Madame de Chateau-Renault, and it was in her salon a few nights later that he was first presented to Madame de Beauhamais, the ravishing brunette whom he had seen leave Barras's house on the night of the 12th-13th Vendemiaire. She was known as La belle Creole and was certainly a very handsome woman, although her nose was slightly retrousse and her ready smile was robbed of much of its attraction by her bad teeth.

Another salon, which now rivalled and was soon to surpass Madame Tallien's, was that of Madame de Stael. She was the daughter of M. Necker, the Swiss banker whose pompous ineptitude and popularity-seeking at the expense of his soveriegn, while acting as Louis XVI's last Minister at Versailles, had done much to precipitate the Revolution. In '86 she had married the Swedish Ambassador to France and after Thermidor had returned with him to their Embassy, an imposing mansion fronted with pillars in the Rue du Bac. No one would have called her a beauty, and she was of a most restless disposition; but she had good eyes, a fine brow and a great gift for intelligent conversation.

In allowing Garat, the handsome singer who was at that time the idol of Paris, to take him to Madame de Stael's, Roger knew that he was running a certain risk. He had been slightly acquainted with her

in the old days, and might at her house run into someone who had known him well before he had transformed himself from the Chevalier de Breuc into a Revolutionary Commissar. In that event an unpleasant incident might occur and land him with a duel. On the other hand, there was a much brighter possibility, for Madame de Stael had been the devoted friend of Louis de Narbonne, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand,

Mathieu de Montmorency and many other Liberal nobles who had sided with the Third Estate in the early days of the Revolution. It was therefore possible that her salon might prove the very bridge he needed unostentatiously to link up his two identities; and it was that which decided him to risk a visit to her.

When Garat had presented him, she gave him a searching look and said: "Both the name Breuc and your features are vaguely familiar to me, Citizen Colonel. Can we have met before?'''

Roger took the plunge. "Yes, Madame la Baronne. It was at the house of M. le Talleyrand-Perigord, out at Passy." Then with a twinkle, he added: "And about that I will tell you a secret, if you will promise to keep it"

"Certainly I promise," she smiled. "I adore secrets."

She waved away the people nearest to them, and, stepping up to her, Roger whispered in her ear: "I have looked after the house for him all through the Revolution, and when he returns he will find it just as he left it"

"You intriguing man." She tapped his arm lightly with her fan. "You are then another of those whom we now discover to have disguised themselves as destroyers in order that they might act as preservers. It is quite a revelation these days to learn how many of our friends succeeded in making fools of that horrid little Robespierre and his brutal associates. How delighted our dear Bishop will be. I am so glad for him."

Turning, she beckoned over a good-looking young man whose fair curly hair fell in ringlets to his shoulders, and introduced him. "This is Mr. Benjamin Constant He has recently arrived from America, and can give you news of our mutual friend."

From Constant, Roger learned that de Talleyrand, while living in very straitened circumstances in Boston, had been employing his fine brain in evolving numerous vast commercial ventures; but none of these attempts to repair his fallen fortunes had yet come to anything. Moreover, the amorous ci-devant Bishop had given great offence to the ladies of Boston society by appearing openly in the street with a lovely young mulatto girl on his arm; but the less strait-laced among the men continued to seek his company on account of his charm and wit

Garat then introduced Roger to his mistress, a beautiful blonde cendree named Madame de Krudner. She was a Courlander and at the age of fourteen had been married to a Russian ambassador. It was said that she possessed mediumistic powers, and occasionally she fell into trances, which were probably mild epileptic fits, in the middle of parties.

She was certainly an angelic-looking creature, but Roger found her vapid and distrait He was much more intrigued by an equally lovely and much more vivacious chestnut-haired beauty of eighteen. Her name was Madame Recamier, and she had already been married for two years to a man twenty-six years older than herself. He was an immensely rich hat manufacturer of Lyons, and during the Terror had not missed watching the guillotine at work for a single day; the excuse for this macabre pastime that he gave his friends being that; as he must sooner or later die by that instrument, he wished to familiarize himself with it.

Yet he had not parted with his head under its blade, and Roger now found remarkable the number of titled and wealthy people who had succeeded in escaping a similar fate although they had remained in Paris all through the Revolution. Nearly all of them had been in prison for a few months during the height of the Terror, and had resigned themselves to death; but Robespierre's fall had saved them, and by bribing the venal revolutionary officials most of them had managed to retain a good part of their fortunes.

Previously to 1789, although the Government had become bankrupt through mismanagement, and the poor in the cities were forced to toil for little more than a starvation wage, France had been by far the richest country in the world. This wealth lay not so much in the hands of the nobility as—apart from a few hundred extremely rich farnilies, their refusal to demean themselves by engaging in any form of com­merce had kept them poor—but in the coffers of enormous numbers of prosperous bourgeoisie. It was mainly the nobility that had emigrated and sent its sons to fight in the army of de Conde; while the bulk of the professional and merchant classes had remained, simply lying low.

Now, although the Government was still bankrupt and the masses starving, thousands of property-owners were digging up large and small hoards of coin from their gardens, or recovering them from under floor boards and other hiding-places. The revolutionary paper money was at a huge discount, but purses full of louis d'or and cart­wheel silver ecus were once more changing hands in Paris with the utmost freedom.

With the disappearance of the fear that ostentation would result in imprisonment and perhaps death, a new era of luxury had set in. It was apparent not only in the exclusive salons, but everywhere. No sooner had the actors and actresses of the Comedie Francaise been released from prison than the theatre had nightly become packed with well-dressed people applauding anti-revolutionary quips. The boxes at the Feydeau were now always occupied by bevies of lovely women and elegantly attired men. In the streets, handsome equipages with coachmen ^vin livery were again to be seen by the score. Shops long closed were once more open for the sale of jewellery, lace, furs, brocades, perfumes, wines, delicacies of all sorts and clothes in the new fashion.

Previously to the Revolution, apart from the aristocratic oligarchies of Venice and Genoa, there had been no Republics in Europe; so the new France had modelled herself largely on the ancient ones of Greece and Rome. The smart women were termed merveilleuses. They had adopted the high-waisted tunic of Corinth and wore their hair piled high in a cone bound with ribbon, leaving the neck bare. Arms and legs were also left bare and the dresses were made of the thinnest obtainable materials; while beneath them so little was worn as to be barely decent. In fact they vied with one another quite shamelessly in exposing their limbs, and often wore tunics slit down the sides which were caught together only by cameos at the shoulder, waist and knee.

The fashion for men had also changed out of all recognition. The incroyables, as the exquisites among the Jeunesse doree were called, wore their hair turned up behind but with long tresses nicknamed "dog's-ears in front. Their high-collared, square-cut frock-coats were buttoned tightly over the stomach and had tails coming down to the calf of the legs, which were encased in silk stockings striped with red, yellow or blue. For evening wear waistcoats were of white dimity with broad facings, and small-clothes of pearl-grey or apple-green satin, over which hung double gold watch chains. But the most out­standing feature of this costume was a huge muslin cravat worn so high that it dipped from ear to ear concealing the chin and almost hiding the mourn.

As a final mark of their antithesis from the sans-culottes both merveilleuses and incroyables, as they called themselves, spoke in drawling affected voices and dropped their ‘r's’ which reminded Roger somewhat of the Creole French used in the West Indies. From mixing with them he derived only one satisfaction: it showed him that he no longer had the least reason to fear being charged by some noble that he had known in the past as a renegade.

Madame de Stael’s implication, that few people knew what their friends had been up to, or the true motives behind their actions during the past few years, was unquestionably correct. And, apparently, they could not have cared less. Scores of men who had, in part at least, been responsible for wholesale murder and plunder, but could point to a few acts of mercy, now dressed as incroyables and were freely admitted to the salons. Many of them were even accepted as friends by the emigre nobles, considerable numbers of whom, although still technically liable to the death penalty, had returned to Paris in the hope of getting their names removed from the lists of outlaws; and there were actually cases in which ex-terrorists had been taken as lovers by young demoiselles of the nobility whose fathers they had sent to the guillotine.

Such was the cynical, worthless and abnormal society, bred by a mating of upheaval and terror, in which Roger moved during October 1795. Yet he knew that side by side with it there existed plenty of families which, without being in the least puritanical, lived respectable lives; and Buonaparte, whom he saw almost daily at his office, one evening spontaneously suggested taking him to meet some old friends of his, who proved to be just such a family.

They consisted of a widow named Pennon, her son Albert, who was about twenty-five, and a high-spirited little daughter of eleven called Laurette, who promised soon to become a most attractive young woman. Madame Permon was a Corsican, a great friend of Buonaparte's mother, and, as she had known him from his birth, she addressed him as Napolione.

In this setting the young General seemed to Roger a different person. The contemptuous twist he could give to his mouth, and the acid rebukes, which could make much older men break out in a sweat of apprehension, were evidently reserved for his hours of duty. Here he laughed freely, treated Madame Permon with an affectionate gallantry and allowed the quick-witted little Laura to tease him to her heart's content

Moreover, he made no secret of the fact that during the past few months, had it not been for Madame Permon and Junot who was also present, he would positively have starved. The one had provided him with many a supper, which had been his only meal of the day, and the other had forced him to accept the major part of the remittances occasionally received from his family.

Junot, a fair, curly-haired young man of twenty-four, with a pleasing and open countenance, was a native of tile Cote d'Or and the son of an official. He had been destined for the law, but the Revolution had swept him into the army. His fellow privates had elected him sergeant for his gallantry on the field of battle, and later, at the siege of Toulon, further acts of bravery had led Buonaparte to single him out for a commission and make him his first A.D.C. His devotion to his General was religious in its intensity; and he had hitched his wagon to no small star, for in course of time it was to make him the husband of the delightful little Laura Pennon, the Military Governor of Paris, a Duke, and the only man who had the right to walk in on his future Emperor at any hour of the day or night

They laughed now over the way in which Junot, who was lucky as a gambler, had more than once ventured his last twenty francs at vingt-et-un in order that he might pay the bills of his Brigadier and himself at the modest Hotel of the Rights of Man, where they shared a room; and how Madame Pennon had often reprimanded Buonaparte for coming in with muddy boots and making a horrid smell by drying them at the fire.

But those days were past The cantankerous, out-at-elbows young officer who had been contemptuously nicknamed by one of Barras's beautiful mistresses 'the little ragamuffin' had disappeared never to return. Buonaparte had bought himself a handsome carriage and a fine house in the Rue des Capucines. His uniform was new and heavy with gold lace, and he had not forgotten those who had befriended him in the dark days of adversity. Junot had been promoted from Lieutenant to Colonel; Madame Permon, who had recently lost her husband and, although it had been kept from her, been left very badly off, was being secretly assisted through her son; and in addition the young General was supporting a hundred other families in the neigh­bourhood who had fallen on evil times.

On the 26th of October the Convention, which for so long had tyrannized over the French people, was at last dissolved; but the majority of its members together with the newly elected third met the following day under the warrant of the new Constitution. As was to be expected, the nominees of the old majority were chosen to fill the offices of State in both the Council of the Five Hundred and the Council of the Ancients.

They then proceeded to the election of the five Directors who were in future to wield the executive power. At the head of the list submitted by the Five Hundred to the Ancients stood the names of Barras, Rewbell, Sieyes, Larevelliere-Lepeaux and Letourneur; below them were those of forty-four nonentities none of whom was in the least suitable to hold high office. By this barefaced piece of political jobbery, and the complaisance of their old colleagues among the Ancients, the Thermidorians and Jacobins succeeded in ensuring the continuance of a government wholly anti-monarchist in character.

Sieyes, out of spleen that his own draft for a new Constitution had been rejected, refused to take office; so Carnot's name was put up and he was promptly elected. After Thermidor, as a member of the dread Committee of Public Safety, this truly great military genius had been indicted with the rest of the Committee for its crimes. But he, Prieur of the Cote d'Or, and Robert Lindet. had all been exonerated, as they had concerned themselves entirely with feeding the nation and maintaining its armed forces. Lindet, an honest man and a tireless worker, had gone so far as to insist on having a separate office, and Carnot had shut his eyes to all else while performing the remarkable feat of increasing the armies of France in less than a year from one hundred and twenty, to seven hundred and fifty, thousand men. Yet they had been deprived of their offices, and the loss of their competent direction had resulted in a chronic shortage of supplies of all kinds in all the French armies for many months past. So the appointment as a Director of the 'Organizer of Victories', as Carnot had been called, was hailed with enthusiasm by all classes.

Larevelliere-Le'peaux had been elected because, on the one hand, he was a typical Girondinist lawyer, and, on the other, had an intense hatred of Christianity, which strongly appealed to the old enrages of the Mountain; so he received backing from both parties and polled more votes than any of the others.

Why Letourneur's name had been put forward was a mystery, as he was a man of no distinction: simply an ex-Captain of Engineers who had worked under Carnot at the War Office. But he was an honest man and had no enemies; so overnight he found himself a celebrity.

Barras, in spite of his vices, at least had to recommend him his courage and initiative at times of crisis, but he was incurably lazy where routine matters were concerned.

Rewbell was a much stronger character than any of the others and a dyed-in-the-wool revolutionary. As Representant en Mission he had for long bullied and terrorized the officers of the Army of the Rhine. He was a fanatical believer in the type of Dictatorship practised by the old Committee of Public Safety and regarded all forms of personal liberty as harmful to the State. He was dishonest himself and had a cynical disbelief in the honesty of others. His manner was rough, he had a harsh voice and expressed his opinions with brutal frankness. Nevertheless, he had an enormous capacity for business, great ability, and a will of iron; so anybody who knew the five men could have little doubt that he would be the one to dominate their councils.

On November the 3rd, dressed in magnificent uniforms specially designed for them, the five new 'Kings of France’ were installed in the Luxemburg Palace, and set about appointing their Ministers. In the meantime Roger had already made the first moves towards going home, and meant to leave shortly after witnessing this epoch-making event

Under the new Constitution, Barras, by becoming a Director, had automatically had to relinquish his military command; so Roger's appointment as a Colonel on his staff had also lapsed. Buonaparte, who had stepped into Barras's shoes as C.-in-C. Army of the Interior, had taken a liking to Roger and told him that although he was not a professional soldier he would be happy to find him employment Barras, too, offered to secure him a good post in the civil adminis­tration. But to both he made the same excuse for declining.

He said that the indifferent food and harsh conditions under which he had lived while for so long a prisoner in England, had undermined

his health; and to restore it fully he felt the only course was to get away from Paris during the winter months to the sunshine of the South of France, where he intended to rent or buy a small property. Both expressed their sympathy, approved his decision and said that he could count on their good offices when he returned to Paris in the spring. During a round of visits to the ladies of the salons, and other people with whom he had recently spent much of his time, he received some expressions of sympathy and more of envy that he should be leaving cold, rainy Paris for warmer climes, but everyone said they would be glad to see him back; so the stage was set for his departure under the most pleasant auspices.

On his last night he supped with Barras in his palatial new quarters at the Luxemburg. It was a gay party of a dozen men, and as many ladies all clad in transparent draperies and hoping to play the role of Aspasia to King Paul I, as they laughingly christened their host; or failing that, to ensnare one of the guests who had influence with him. The party promised to go on into the small hours, but Roger was making an early start in the morning; so soon after midnight he excused himself.

As he waited on the steps of the Palace for the porter to beckon up a coach to take him home, a tall, thin figure emerged from the shadows of the courtyard, stepped up to him and said:

"May I have a word with you, Citizen?"

By the flickering light of the torches Roger recognized Fouché; and, as the coach halted opposite them at that moment, he replied:

"Certainly, if you wish. Jump in. I will drive you home."

When they were settled in the coach, Fouché said: "So you are leaving Paris?"

"Yes; how did you know?"

'Things get about, and I hear most of them; just as I did that you would be among Barras's guests tonight"

"It seems that you must have been very anxious to see me, to wait about in the rain. You've been lucky too in that I did not remain till the end of the party, as it will go on for some hours yet"

"I have never lacked patience where my own interests are con­cerned," Fouché" replied acidly. "But you might have spared me the necessity of seeking you out in so uncomfortable a manner. Why did you not get in touch with me again, as you promised?"

Roger shrugged. "I saw no point in doing so. Thirteenth Vendemiaire rendered the plan we had evolved quite impossible of execution; so there was nothing for us to discuss."

"I disagree. The fact that Buonaparte ruined our.prospects does not affect the fact that you still hold the little Capet."

For a moment Roger thought of telling Fouché that he could rid his mind of the hope that he might gain anything from that belief, because the boy was dead. He would either reach that conclusion or have to be told so sometime, and the fiction that the child was still alive had served its purpose. By keeping what he knew to himself, Fouché had given him a free run on his return to Paris. Luck and his own wits had enabled him to make excellent use of it He was now as safe as the Bank of England, whereas Fouché was still friendless and discredited. The ex-Terrorist might swear until he was black in the face that Roger was an English spy, but he had not one atom of proof and no one would believe him.

But, on second thoughts. Roger decided that now was not the time to reveal to Fouché how he had been tricked. He might have a pistol or a dagger on him and, in a fit of ungovernable rage, attempt to use it The close darkness of the coach was no place to invite a fight, and it would be folly to risk death or serious injury to no purpose. So, after a moment, he said:

"I waited in Paris to learn the results of the elections to the Directory, although I had little hope that they would provide us with a possible opening; and so it his proved. Letourneur is a man of straw. Larevelliere-Lepeaux is so intense an atheist that he would die rather than assist in the re-establishment of the Church, without which a Restoration is unthinkable. Carnot, Rewbell and Barras are all regicides. Their past deeds pledge them to fight to the last ditch for the continuance of a Republic. And behind all five now stands Buonaparte with his cannon. Surely you can see that the executive power aving been given into the hands of such men renders any attempt by us to use our Royal pawn more hopeless than ever."

"To that I agree; but you could open negotiations about him with the Bourbon Princes."

"No. When last we talked of this, you said yourself that the Comte de Provence having had himself proclaimed Louis XVIII blocked our prospects in that direction. It is certain that he would repudiate the child and declare him to be an impostor."

"That is possible, but not certain," Fouché argued. "And I am in desperate straits. Nearly all our old associates have been more fortunate than myself. They have succeeded in burying their pasts, and are now accepted as honest men who did only what they were compelled to do for the safety of the Republic in the days of its danger. I. too, could have whitewashed myself had I remained a member of the Convention. But having been expelled from it makes me a marked man, and no one will give me employment. Will you not please consider approaching the Comte de Provence?"

The drive from the Luxemburg to the Passage Pappilote, where Fouché had his little house, was a short one, and as the coach pulled up at its entrance, Roger said firmly:

"To do as you ask would be to show our hand prematurely, and with little chance of gaining anything from it. I think you should consider yourself lucky not to have been sent to the guillotine with Carrier, or despatched to Cayenne with Billaud and Collot In any case, no man with a brain as good as yours is likely to starve. Mean­while, I can only suggest you should be patient until some new turn of events here decides me that the time has come to return to Paris with a good prospect of our being able to use the little Capet to the best advantage."

Reluctantly Fouché got out, and, not very cordially, they wished one another good night

Early in the morning Roger bade good-bye to the faithful Blanchards, and mounted a good bay mare that had his valise strapped to the back of her saddle. He had decided to travel by horseback so that no coach­man could later give away the direction he had taken. He also took the precaution of leaving Paris by its southern gate and riding some distance along the road to Melun before making a great detour via Rambouillet to Mantes, where he spent the night. Thence he followed the road north-west to Elbeuf, but then left the Seine and branched off to Pont Audemer. There he spent the second night, and soon after noon on the third day arrived at Harfleur.

Dan Izzard had many friends among the smugglers on both sides of the Channel, and through him Roger knew how to set about finding one who would run him across. The war had caused a huge boom in smuggling, as the demand in England for French wines and brandies was as great as ever, and, now that luxury goods could again be sold in France, there were eager buyers there for Yorkshire cloth, Lancashire muslins and Nottingham lace. A few tactful enquiries soon produced the Captain of a lugger who was waiting only for better weather to run a cargo.

The lugger was lying in Trouville, a little fishing village a few miles down the coast; so Roger moved to the inn there. Next day the weather eased a litde, so the skipper decided to sail on the night tide. It proved a horrible crossing, and Roger hated every moment of it, but the smugglers set him safely ashore twenty-four hours later not far from Deal. On the evening of November the 12th he reached London.

There, one of the surprises of his life was waiting for him. At Ames bury House he found two letters from Amanda. Opening the one of the earlier date he saw from its first few lines that she was going to have a baby.

She wrote that she had already been five months' pregnant when he had left Martinique, but had wished to keep her secret as long as possible. Then in the desperate rush of his departure there had been no suitable opportunity to tell him. Her health was excellent and she expected her child to be born about Christmas. He need have no fears for her, as Cousin Margaret was being more than a mother to her and had already engaged a French doctor of the highest reputation in such matters to attend the accouchement. She was plagued with no longings, except the natural one to have him near her when his child was born, but with the ocean between them she had resigned herself not to hope for that, though she did hope that his duty to Mr. Pitt would not detain him so long in Europe as to deprive her of the joy of presenting his first-born to him while still an infant.

The second letter contained assurances of her continued good health and general news about social life in Martinique, including several paragraphs about Clarissa, who continued to be the toast of the island, but would give preference to none of her beaux for more than a few weeks apiece, and had now refused at least a dozen offers of marriage.

Roger had hardly digested Amanda's great news when Droopy came in from a meeting of the Royal Society of Arts; and over supper together the two old friends drank far more than was good for them in healths to Amanda and her precious burden.

Next morning Roger went round to Downing Street and sent up his name to Mr. Pitt His master kept him waiting for the best part of two hours, but then received him with a smile and said: "I feel sure you have much to tell me, Mr. Brook; so I have despatched my most urgent business and am now free to listen to you with an easy mind. You will, I trust, join me in a glass of port?"

With a word of thanks, Roger accepted the wine the Prime Minister poured for him and sat down on the far side of the document-strewn table, then proceeded to give a lucid account of his doings for the past seven weeks. He ended by saying:

"So you will appreciate, Sir, that for several months at least our plans must lie dormant Without assurances of support in Paris, Pichegru will not move; and I am convinced that there is no hope of such support being forthcoming until some fresh turn of fortune's wheel displaces the rogues who have recently secured to themselves the supreme power in France. That I should have failed you in this I deeply regret but..."

The Prime Minister held up his hand. "Say no more, Mr. Brook. I was always confident that once you set your mind to it you would manage to re-establish yourself in Paris, and that you should have succeeded so completely makes it all the harder that the events of 13th Vendemiaire should have robbed you of the chance to achieve a coup of the first magnitude. Yet you have returned to me far from empty handed. Your handling of General Pichegru was positively masterly, and is already having most excellent results."

Roger smiled. "I thank you, Sir. I felt much apprehension in gambling so great a sum on Pichegru's good faith; but before I left Paris reports were coming in which seemed to indicate that he intends to earn the money. His failure to take Heidelberg can hardly have been anything but deliberate; and the possession of that city appeared to me to be the crux of the whole campaign, owing to the several com­municating valleys that all converge upon it"

"Our military pundits confirm you in that; and for once the Austrians have not been slow to take advantage of an opportunity offered to them. General Jourdan's army is now dammed up behind the River Neckar, and as he is dependant on supplies from the distant Low Countries he must now either retreat or suffer defeat from his troops being weakened by starvation. Meanwhile the Austrians should be able to contain Pichegru in Mannheim; and even, perhaps, drive him out of it back across the Rhine. I would, though, that we were nearer to peace."

"I fear that as things are there is little hope of that, Sir."

"I know it" Mr. Pitt agreed unhappily. "Yet the nation needs, and is near demanding it On the 29th of last month His Majesty's coach was stoned when he was on his way to open Parliament by a mob yelling at him to make an end of the war. Such an occurrence, when he has for so long enjoyed great popularity with the masses, is indication enough of the state of public feeling."

Roger sadly shook his head. "That is indeed bad news. I only wish that I could have done better for you."

"Nay, Mr. Brook. You have done all that any man could. Were it not for you we should be in far worse case. The Austrians might have been compelled to sue for peace this winter. At least you have gained for them a breathing space until the spring; and that is much. Meanwhile it seems there is little we can do but continue to use our forces to the best advantage and hope for better times."

"You are then, Sir, agreeable to release me; so that I may return to Martinique?"

"Yes, if you wish. Though I would much prefer to have you nearer to me."

"That is hardly possible if I am to do justice to my Governorship."

"Harry Dundas tells me that you have done remarkably well there; so presumably you find such work congenial. But are you still of the opinion that a post so far from the centre of things will long content you?"

"Not indefinitely, perhaps," Roger admitted. "Yet it has great attractions for me, and for a few years I am sure I could be very happy in it"

Mr. Pitt frowned. "I wish that I could persuade you otherwise. However, should you tire of it you have only to let me know. Dundas will have no difficulty in finding a suitable man to replace you and pay you ten thousand pounds for the privilege. In the meantime I will instruct Mr. Rose to place five thousand to your credit, in recognition of the signal service you have rendered to the Allied cause."

'That is most generous, and I am deeply grateful, Sir."

'"Twould not go far in hiring foreign levies to much less purpose," smiled the Prime Minister, standing up. "Do you plan to return to Martinique at once, or first enjoy some leave in London?"

Roger, too, came to his feet. "I mean to sail by the first ship available. I have received news that my wife is due to bear a child within a week or so of Christmas. As it is our first I would fain be with her at the time. Given an early start and a good passage that should be possible."

"In that case I can aid you. A fleet with considerable reinforcements for the West Indies, under General Sir Ralph Abercromby, who is to be our new Commander-in-Chief there, is due to sail next week. I will instruct the Admiralty to find you accommodation in one of the war­ships. Please convey my compliments and congratulations to Mrs. Brook."

Having expressed his thanks again Roger took his leave well satisfied with the results of the interview. Five thousand pounds made a hand­some addition to the little fortune he had succeeded in accumulating during the past three years, and he was clearly more strongly established than ever in the good graces of his master.

On his return to England he had hoped to go down to stay for some nights at Stillwaters with Georgina, but the previous evening Droopy Ned had told him that she was taking the waters at Bath; so, unless the ship that was to carry him to Martinique sailed from Bristol, it now looked as if there was little chance of his seeing her. As a salve of sorts to his disappointment, he bought a number of expensive toys with which his godson was as yet far too young to play, men wrote a long letter to Georgina to be despatched with them.

In the evening he received a chit from the Admiralty. The Fleet was to sail from Spithead for Barbados on November the 18th, and accommodation had been found for him in the frigate Swiftsure. To go in her promised a safe and swift passage across the ocean, and there was plenty of local shipping plying between Barbados and Martinique which, given a good wind, lay only a day's sailing apart; so, little knowing what he was being let in for, he felt that nothing could have suited mm better.

The next three days he spent looking up old friends, and buying to take out with him innumerable presents for Amanda, together with a supply of beribboned baby clothes large enough to have clothed the inmates of a creche. Early on the morning of the 17th he bade farewell to Droopy Ned, drove down to Portsmouth with Dan, and that evening they went aboard H.M.S. Swiftsure.

On the Fleet's very first night at sea it was caught by a terrible tempest in the Channel and entirely dispersed. When Roger had recovered from the miseries of sea-sickness sufficiently to drag himself on deck he found that Swiftsure was well out into the Atlantic, but had lost her foremast. The jurymast rigged in its place meant a great curtailment of her normal sail so an addition of many days to her. voyage.

As she limped south-westward he could hardly contain his im­patience, but fret and fume as he did that added nothing to the speed of the frigate. It was Christmas Eve when, without having sighted a single one of her late companions, she docked in Bridgetown, Barbados, and a good merchantman could have made the crossing in considerably less than the time she had taken. Within an hour of landing Roger had hired a schooner to take him on to Martinique, and it brought him into the harbour of Fort Royal soon after dawn on Boxing Day.

Leaving Dan to superintend the landing of his baggage, he went ashore at once and jumped into an ancient carriage that a sleepy negro had just driven on to the quay in the hope of picking up an early fare. He was driven up the hill to the Chateau, where, as it was now winter again, he felt sure that Amanda would be reinstalled. When he reached it the servants were just setting about their morning duties. As he ran into the spacious hall they stopped work and, taken by surprise by his unexpected appearance, stared at him for a moment as if he were a ghost.

Then a woolly-haired young footman, the whites of his eyes rolling, ran off down a passage. A dusky housemaid gave a squeak and flung her apron over her head; another negress fled upstairs, taking the steps three at a time.

Smiling at the commotion he had caused, Roger strode up the stairs after the flying housemaid, who shot round a corner on the second floor before he was half-way up the first flight. At the time he did not realize it, but she had gone to tell Madame de Kay of his arrival. As he reached the second landing a door slammed and that lady appeared in a corridor to the left. Her hair was still in curlers and about her she clutched a hastily donned dressing-gown.

With a laugh, he called to her. ^r'Am I in time? A cursed frigate should have got me here days ago, but we suffered every sort of delay imaginable."

As she walked towards him she replied: "You have come too late, Roger dear. It was on Christmas Eve."

"Ah welll" he shrugged. "Never mind. But Amanda and the boy— I've felt certain all along that she'd bear me a son. How are they?"

Tears welled into Cousin Margaret's eyes, and she stammered

huskily: "You ... you have a daughter, Roger. But poor Amanda...In giving birth... . She ... she is dead. We buried her yesterday."

chapter XXIII

MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW

About those words 'we buried her yesterday' there seemed an even more terrible finality than the thought of death itself. Roger stood there aghast, rigid and motionless, shaken to the roots of his being.

Amanda was such a strong, well-built young woman, and she had had hardly a day's illness in her life. He had accepted it as not uncom­mon for women to die in child-birth, but it had never even crossed his mind that such a fate would overtake her.

Their marriage had been no idyll. Before it both of them had been the victims of passionate love affairs that had gone awry; so neither had had the illusion that the other was the only person in the world for them. But during their long honeymoon in Italy, and the year that followed, they had come to delight more and more in one another. After a further six months, debts and restlessness had driven Roger to resume his old work for Mr. Pitt in France; so for the next two years they had been together very little and had gradually drifted apart Then after Robespierre's fall and Roger's return they had had a genuine reconciliation. He had believed himself done for good with the hazard­ous life he had led and ready to settle down. The peril in which they had both stood for many weeks after the taking of the Circe had drawn them still closer together, and during their seven months in Martinique they had been happier than ever before.

Unlike other women, Amanda had never made demands upon him. Her only faults had been an irritating vagueness about practical matters, and an irresponsibility about money which could at times

prove embarrassing. She had been the easiest person in the world to be with; gentle, kind, generous in thought and deed, ever ready for laughter. And now she was gone—gone for ever.

"Roger!" Madame de Kay's gentle voice impinged only faintly on his bemused brain. "I know this must be a terrible blow to you. I would have tried to break the news more gently had I had warning of your corning. I wish you could have seen her. She looked so sweet, and utterly at peace. But in this hot climate the funeral...."

"Please! Please!" He held up his hand. "I beg you say no more. I wish to be alone to think." Then he turned away and strode off to the bedroom he had shared with Amanda.

It was neat and orderly, just as he had last seen it Amanda's toilet things were laid out on the dressing-table, and. pulling open a wardrobe, he stared at the dresses which still hung there. On hearing a faint movement at the door his heart almost stopped beating. For a moment he was seized with the thought that he had just woken from an awful nightmare and that on turning he would see Amanda walk into the room; but it was Cousin Margaret, who had followed him.

She had wiped away her tears and spoke in a carefully controlled voice. "You cannot have breakfasted. You must eat to keep up your strength, my dear. Please come downstairs in a quarter of an hour. By then I will have had a meal made ready for you."

"Nay, food would choke me," he replied harshly. "I want nothing. Except, yes—please have the best spare room prepared for me at once."

"It is always kept ready for guests," she murmured. Then, feeling that at the moment any attempt to console him would be useless, she quietly withdrew.

For some ten minutes he remained fiddling dazedly with Amanda's things. Then he walked along to the big guest room and threw himself down in an arm-chair.

An hour later Dan knocked on the door, and, receiving no reply, went in. He said nothing, but his silence as he stood with bowed shoulders, just inside the door, was more eloquent of sympathy than any words could have been.

After a moment, Roger said: "Bring me some wine. Madeira. Half a dozen bottles."

Without a word Dan executed the order, uncorked one of the bottles, filled a glass, and left him.

Late m the afternoon Dan came in again, carrying a tray of food. Three of the bottles were empty and Roger was slightly glassy-eyed, but not drunk. For some inexplicable reason alcohol has little effect on some people when in a state of either great joy or great grief. He had consumed the other three bottles and was still sober when Dan came in that night but he allowed Dan to help him off with his jack boots, undressed himself and went to bed.

Next morning his cousin came to see him, but he bade her leave him in peace; then Doctor Fergusson, but he drove that pleasant young man from the room by snapping at him: "I am in no need of physics; go mind your own affairs!"

That day and the next he ate little, continued to drink but with more moderation, and sat for hours on end moodily staring into vacancy. On the fourth morning his door opened and Clarissa stood framed in it She was dressed in full black, which showed off her gold hair and milk-and-roses complexion to great advantage. In her arms she carried a bundle of muslin and lace. Behind her stood Cousin Margaret looking distinctly apprehensive.

"Roger." Clarissa addressed him with a slightly hesitant smile "I have brought your little daughter to see you."

‘Take her away," he replied coldly. "I do not wish to see her."

"But Roger!" she protested. "She is such a sweet little thing, and your own child. How can you possibly reject her when dear Amanda gave her life to give her to you?*'

"You have said it!" he roared, his blue eyes suddenly blazing. "How can you think that I would wish to look upon the thing that killed her? Be gone from here! Be gone this instant!"

After that they left him for three days to mope, and the New Year of 1796 came and went unnoticed by him. Then on January the 2nd Colonel Penruddock entered his room unannounced and said:

"Mr. Brook! Or, if as an older man and your friend you will permit me to call you so, Roger. All of us here who hold you in affection are most concerned for you. No one who knew your lady could fail to sympathize with you in your tragic loss; but however deeply you may grieve within, the outward manifestation of the sentiment does not become you when carried to such excess. You have a duty to yourself and others. I am told that you refuse to see anyone; but your post requires that you should listen to my report as Deputy Governor upon events which have occurred here during your absence. There are, too, enquiries from the Assembly, the Garrison and the Town Council, all asking when it will be convenient for you to receive deputations from them, so that they can make their duty to you on your return; and you cannot keep them waiting indefinitely. Above all, you are behaving with monstrous unkindness to Madame de Kay and Miss Marsham, in repulsing their sympathy and shutting yourself away. I pray you, for all our sakes, to play the man, and now face the world again."

Eyeing him gloomily, Roger replied: "Colonel, I appreciate the motive of your visit, but must ask that you do not repeat it. I no longer have a use for the world, and give not a damn what it thinks or does. Should I emerge I would do you little credit with these deputa­tions. Worse, I would, mayhap, strangle with my own hands the French physician who allowed my wife to die. Then on your hands you would have a hanging. Had the Prime Minister required a continuance of my services in Europe I might not have returned here for a year or more; and for however long I was away it would have been for you to carry out my duties. This shock has rendered me incapable of attending to business, and I had not yet taken over from you; so I desire you to leave me to my misery, and carry on as though I had not returned."

Under his icy glance Penruddock saw nothing for it but to retire; so, with a bow, he said: "Your Excellency's servant," and left the room.

During the six days that followed Roger made not the slightest alteration in his regime. Alternately he slept or sat in moody contem­plation with a vacant look on his face. He would see no one but Dan, and, from his reports, Madame de Kay and Doctor Fergusson feared that he was going out of his mind; but Dan would not agree to that He insisted that his master's brain was sound as ever, but had become dormant and needed some special impulse to rearouse it Fergusson agreed that he was probably right, but added that unless some such impulse could be given it fairly soon, a general deterioration might set in which would rob him of his wits for good. Clarissa was present a this conversation and after it went to her room, where she sat for some time in deep thought

That night Roger went to bed about ten o'clock, which was his usual hour. By eleven he was sound asleep. Soon after midnight he was roused by a faint noise. Opening his eyes he saw a glow of light. Then he turned over to find that the curtains of his bed had been drawn aside and that Clarissa stood there, a candlestick in her hand, gazing down upon him.

She was wearing a dark coloured chamber robe caught together at the neck by a big silk bow which stuck out on either side of her chin. Above it her oval face, framed in golden ringlets, was lit up by the candle light For a moment he thought he was dreaming; but she caught his thought and said softly:

"I am no dream. I'm real."

"What... what the devil has brought you here?" he asked sleepily.

"Don't be so rude, Roger," she smiled. "I am perhaps a little late, but I came to wish you a Happy Birthday."

"Birthday!" he muttered, propping himself up on an elbow. "Is it my birthday? I'd no idea of the date. Recently the days seem to have merged into one another. Since Amanda's death.... Oh God!"

"I know. You have been half out of your mind with grief. But she would not have wished you to continue so. And with her last breath she charged me to take care of both her child and you."

"Why you, and not Cousin Margaret?"

"Because she believed that I could make you happy."

For a moment Roger remained silent then he said roughly: "You told her, then, that you were in love with me?"

"No. I would never have done that. She guessed it. Women instinc­tively know such things about one another."

"And she did not resent it?"

"Nay. Although I did not deserve her generosity, she trusted me completely. She had no idea that I had confessed my love to you; but as she lay dying she sent your Cousin Margaret away and told me that she knew it, then expressed the hope that you would marry me."

"I've not the least intention of marrying anyone."

She shook her head. "I did not suppose you had. So as it is your birthday I brought you a present"

He gave a puzzled frown. "A present? What have presents to do with this? I do not understand."

As he was speaking she had set the candlestick on the bedside table and stepped back. With one hand she gave a swift pull to an end of the bow at her neck and with the other ripped open the fastenings of her chamber robe. Beneath it she had nothing on at all. Pulling off the robe she threw it over the back of a chair, then stood before him with downcast eyes, revealed in all her beauty.

"I have brought you myself," she said in a breathless whisper.

"Clarissa!" he gasped. "What are you thinking of? You must be mad! Put on your robe and go back to your room."

"I am not mad!" Her blue eyes suddenly looked straight into his and she spoke firmly. "I am nineteen, and I know what I am doing."

"Ah, you are a; grown woman," he admitted, "but you have bewitched yourself, or you would never behave in such a fashion."

"It is you who are bewitched!" she retorted swiftly. "I am no more so than any woman who has loved a man to near distraction for above a year. 'Tis you who are under a spell! A spell cast by death, which is slowly destroying your mind. And I am here to break it"

Suddenly she shivered, took a pace forward, grasped the bed­clothes and pulled them back, exclaiming: "Roger, I am cold! For pity's sake let me come into your bed."

"No!" he cried hoarsely. ^‘No, no! I'll not let you do this!"

But she was already half kneeling above him m the bed. As he sat up to push her out her shoulder brushed against his, and the warmth of it ran through him like an electric shock. Next moment she had flung her soft arms round his neck and pressed her half-open mouth on his in a passionate kiss.

Carried out of himself he clasped her to him, and his lips responded with equal vigour. As they broke the kiss she gave a cry of triumph.

"There! I have made you come alive again; and I knew that you could love me if you would."

Silently he put up his hands, clasped her wrists, pulled them from behind his neck, and pushed her away from him. Then he said coldly:

"You are wrong in that I have never ceased to be alive, and I have no intention of making love to you." After a second, deciding that it was the only way to chill her, he added what had now become a lie. "Please understand that this has nought to do with the memory of Amanda. It is simply that I have never bad the least desire to have you for a bedfellow."

His words had an instantaneous effect. Suddenly, still half sprawled upon him, she went absolutely limp; then she slid down beside him, a sob burst from her throat, and she moaned: "Oh God! That I should have to suffer this!"

"I pray you be sensible," he urged with swift contrition. "I implied as much long since, that night in the forest."

"No, you did not." Her words came in a shaky voice. "You led me only to suppose that out of consideration for Amanda you would not allow your thoughts to dwell on me; and, for the same reason I told you that even did you want me I would refuse you. Yet I have always hoped that some twist of fate might bring us together in different circumstances. Not her death! God forbid! I had no thought of that; but that the two of you might separate again, as you did once before. In that hope, since arriving here, I have refused offers of marriage from a dozen men of good fortune and repulsed half a hundred who have done their best to seduce me. There is scarce a man here on the island who would not give a half of all he possesses to sleep with me. Yet you—the only one to whom I would give myself with gladness— have nought but harsh words for me. Though I lie here in bed with you, you treat me as though I were a leper. Oh Roger! How can you be so brutal?"

'1 am truly sorry," he said huskily. "I did not mean to hurt you."

"Hurt me!" she exclaimed. "You could not have done so more effectually had you thrust a white-hot iron right through my body."

On the last word she choked, and burst into tears. For a moment Roger let her cry, then he pushed an arm under her shoulders and drew her golden head down on to his chest. She made no movement either to resist or cling to him but went on crying.

"There, there!" he murmured, as to a child. "Do not take on so, my dear. At least you may be assured that I have a great affection for you."

At the word 'affection' a shudder ran through her, and her sobs increased in violence until they shook her whole body. In vain Roger strove to comfort her, but whether she even took in his words he could not tell. She cried and cried and cried until, after a long time, gradually her weeping eased. There followed a period of silence, during which he had not the heart to tell her to get up and go to her room. Then, from her gentle, even breathing, he realized that, utterly worn out by her emotions, she had fallen asleep.

One by one the hours of the night crept on, but he remained wide awake while she lay snuggled against his side sleeping peacefully. The arm he had about her grew stiff and cramped, yet he would not move it until he saw the light of dawn creeping beneath the curtains of the windows. Stooping his head, then, he roused her by kissing her lightly on the cheek.

She turned over and her blue eyes opened, still dewy with sleep. Suddenly they widened, and she breathed his name. Recalling her words when she had woken him at midnight, he said:

"I am no dream. I'm real."

"Then I must have fallen asleep," she murmured.

"Yes." A faint smile twitched the corners of his mouth. "This dropping asleep in one another's arms threatens to become a habit Still, you wanted to sleep with me, and you've had your wish."

"But nothing happened?"

"No, nothing."

Her lovely face clouded over. "Then I failed after all to arouse in you the sort of impulse that Doctor Fergusson said you needed."

For the first time in over a fortnight Roger laughed. "Oh come! I cannot believe that young Fergusson sent you to me, or that he had that sort of impulse in mind."

"Indeed no! He implied only that some means of taking your thoughts off your grief must be found if your brain was to be restored to normal."

"Then in that you have succeeded. I know not how, but I think it must have been your wish to heal me coupled with your nearness as you lay beside me all through the night. Something flowed out of you and into me that was balm to my troubled soul."

"Oh Roger, I am overjoyed!"

He made a little grimace. "I fear you may be less so when you hear the sequel. During the night I have had ample time to think. I must have work—real work—to occupy my mind; and the routine of

a Governor in an island at peace will not provide it. Moreover, should I remain in Martinique I shall be constantly reminded of Amanda. 1 am going home by the first ship I can find to take me, and I do not intend to return."

"What of your little daughter? Surely you do not intend to abandon her completely?"

"No. Later I will endeavour to be all that a father should be to her. But for the present she is too young to travel. When I have surrendered my Governorship, Cousin Margaret will, I am sure, give her a home."

"What then of myself? It was I whom Amanda charged with the care of her child, and I accepted the charge gladly."

"I know it, and am truly grateful, but I do not wish her to become a tie upon you. It is my most earnest wish that either here or in England you should find a husband."

"Do you then force me, to the choice of marrying someone for whom I do not care, or returning to live with my Aunt Jane in near poverty?"

"Perish the thought, Clarissa! What can you think of me? I had intended, whatever you decided, to regard you in future as my ward and make you a suitable allowance."

"Bless, you for that," she smiled. "I had not really thought you meant to abandon me. Your Cousin Margaret would no doubt give me a home, for some months at least, out of kindness; but it would make me happier if I could offer to become her paying guest. Have you thought yet what you mean to do about the babe when she is old enough for me to bring her to England?"

"As you must by now have heard, Georgina had a boy in August. The children will be much of an age so they can share a nursery. And now, my dear, it is time for you to go back to your room."

Clarissa, still naked, had been lying on her back with the bed­clothes drawn up to her chin. Now, she slipped out of bed with her back to him and stretched out a hand to pick up her robe.

"One moment!" he said, jumping out beside her, and taking her hand in his. "Come to the window. I want to see the dawn, and you in it"

"But Roger!" she protested, trying to pull away from him.

"Nay!" he laughed. "After last night you have no case to plead modesty with me, and nought to be ashamed of. Never again in all my life may I have a chance to look upon such rare and splendid beauty."

Obediently, then, she allowed him to lead her to one of the tall windows. As he pulled back the heavy curtains the light came flooding in upon them. The sun had just overtopped the mountains to the east and beyond a deep belt of shadow lit the blue waters of the outer bay.

"Look!" he exclaimed. "At last I can again welcome a new day— a new life. And you have made that possible."

As he turned and stood away from her, tears welled up into her eyes, and she said miserably: "Oh Roger! I know not what to think. You say now that I am beautiful, yet last night you put me from you. To understand you is beyond me."

'Is it so difficult?" his voice was gentle. "I am not made of stone; but memories of Amanda will for long make any thought of taking another wife out of the question for me. To have made you my mistress, then left you, would have been a cruel thing to do. Moreover, I would not have it on my conscience that when you do find some good fellow that you wish to marry, you should be deprived of the joy of knowing physical love for the first time with him."

"Then you did desire me?"

He smiled. "So much so that when you have been married a while, I'll do my utmost to seduce you." "Must I wait for that?"

"Yes. And should your marriage prove a happy one, you'll wait in vain. But I wanted you to know that for you I shall always have the tenderest feelings."

'She held out her arms. He took her into his and gave her a long sweet kiss. Then he said: "When I come downstairs in a few hours' time, remember to show as much surprise as the others. Now my pretty, you must go, or one of our fuzzy-haired housemaids will see you leave my room."

He then helped her on with her robe, and from the door watched her tiptoe away down the corridor.

When in due course he came downstairs everyone was amazed to see him brisk, smiling and entirely restored to his old good humour. Apart from apologizing to his Cousin, Clarissa, Penruddock and Fergusson for his boorish behaviour he made no reference to the past, except to say that he felt sure it would have been Amanda's wish that Clarissa should have all her things, and to distribute the many presents he had brought for her between Clarissa and his Cousin. Then he duly admired and caressed his little daughter, who he decided should be christened Susan Amanda.

Having disclosed his intention of returning to England, as he had already charged Penruddock with carrying on for him, he had only to spend an hour with the Colonel informally, discussing the affairs of the island. Another hour, with Mr. Beckwith, revealed that during the year he had held the appointment of Governor he had netted well over four thousand pounds, in addition to his salary, and, as the post was unlikely to be taken over for several months to come, he could expect at least another fifteen hundred, which was most satisfactory.

No ship was expected to leave for England under a fortnight, but a schooner was due to sail from St Pierre for Jamaica next day; so he decided to take passage in her. Penruddock turned out the regiment there to do him the honours as he went aboard, and, after farewells as cheerful as they could be in the circumstances, the schooner put out from the harbour to the thundering of cannon up in the fortress firing a Governor's salute.

On the second day crossing the Caribbean he had great cause to wish that he had waited for a larger ship, as that afternoon the schooner was chased by a Dutch privateersman. In view of his dire experience the previous year he was for some hours filled with the most nerve-racking apprehensions. But nightfall saved the schooner from capture

and on the 15th brought him safely to Kingston, where he found at anchor a large British Fleet.

The Williamsons were pleased to put him up again, but the. General was in poor shape and had a gloomy story to tell. He had spent most of the past year directing operations in Saint-Domingue, but owing to the unreliability of the troops under the French Royalists, lack of stores and the ravages of Yellow Jack among his own men, he had made no headway whatever against Toussaint and the Revolutionaries inspired by Victor Hugues. Ill and worn out by his endeavour to make bricks without straw, he had in the autumn been granted long furlough; but his successor, Sir Ralph Abercromby, had arrived only die previous day.

The Fleet with which Roger had sailed had, owing to the tempest, had seven transports wrecked on the coast of Dorset with a terrible loss of life. It had then made another false start, during which thirty ships had been driven back into the Solent; so he was, after all, lucky not to have suffered an even greater delay in reaching Barbados.

That night he met the new C.-in-C. at dinner. Sir Ralph looked like a Highland terrier. He was purblind and was already sixty-two, but he still possessed tremendous energy and had earned a great military reputation by covering the retreat and evacuation of the British expeditionary force from Holland in the preceding winter.

Before him there lay a task which would have daunted a lesser man. Apart from the war in Saint-Domingue, there were major slave rebellions to be put down in St. Lucia, Grenada, Dominica and St. Vincent Demerara had to be taken from the Dutch as it was now being used to fit out French privateers; the Spaniards, too, although still technically neutral, were allowing Trinidad to be used for the same purpose; and, last but not least, Victor Hugues, the cause of all the trouble, remained the solidly entrenched master of Guadeloupe.

Sir Ralph heartily blessed Roger for having kept his island in good order and begged him to change his decision about going home. Roger firmly declined, but added that any man should be capable of doing the same provided he observed three maxims. Namely: to win the goodwill of the French inhabitants; to hang half a dozen people at the first sign of trouble, even if some of them should later be proved innocent, rather than allow matters to develop to a point where hundreds might lose their lives in a general conflict; and to place the health of the troops before any other consideration.

The General heartily agreed with him, and showed the greatest keenness with regard to the last recommendation. Apparently some imbecile in Whitehall had deprived the Scottish regiments of their bonnets and kilts and instead equipped them with broad-brimmed felt hats and duck trousers. The idea of this well-meaning theorist had been to protect their faces from the sun, and their legs from mosquitoes; but in the tropical rains this new uniform became sodden, and could not be dried for hours, with the result that pneumonia had now become a scourge second only to Yellow Jack. Roger readily acceded to Sir Ralph's request that on reaching London he should press Mr. Windham as a matter of urgency to have the Scots' bonnets and kilts restored to them; then he put in a good word for Colonel Penruddock as a capable and reliable man, and wished Sir Ralph success in the numerous campaigns he was about to undertake.

Two days later he set sail in a fast mail packet for England. She made an excellent crossing and landed him at Liverpool on February the 14th. Next day he took a coach to London, and the following evening was once more installed in Amesbury House; although to his regret he had learned on his arrival that Droopy had temporarily removed himself to Brighton in order to enjoy some winter sunshine. On the morning of the 17th, after a wait of an hour, he secured an interview with Mr. Pitt, and told him the reason for his return.

Having commiserated with him on his bereavement, the Prime Minister said: "From you, Mr. Brook, I need be at no pains to conceal that the Allied cause is now in a more parlous state than ever before; and my anxieties on that account, at times, near as much as I can bear. All that can be done with ships, men and money is being done already; so our best hope of better fortune lies in original ideas carried out by men who have the courage to apply them. You may be able to help us in this way. If so your return is doubly welcome."

Roger shook his head. "I fear I have nothing to suggest, Sir. I can only say that I have decided to accept your offer to have Mr. Dundas dispose of my Governorship for me, and am now ready to serve you wherever you feel I might prove useful to you."

"How well informed are you of the present situation?"

"But poorly, Sir. I left here in mid-November and got back to London only yesterday, so I know practically nothing of fresh developments which may have taken place during the past three and a half months."

"Then I will briefly review them for you." Mr. Pitt took a swig of port and went on: "The Austro-Sardinian army in Italy managed to old its own against General Kellerman until the late autumn. But since the French Commander was replaced by General Scherer, things there have gone far from well. At about the same time we relieved Admiral Hotham of the command of the Mediterranean Fleet and appointed in his stead Sir John Jervis. His major task has been to continue the blockade of Toulon; so he could afford to detach only a small squadron, under a promising young senior Captain named Nelson, to do the best they could to interrupt French communications with the Italian coast In consequence, and probably also because Carnot is once again directing the French war effort considerable quantities of supplies got through. The French, from being short of everything, were enabled to launch a new offensive.

"I am advised that General Scherer is no great master of war; but he appears to have several daring and capable corps commanders under him. Their names are Augereau, Serurier, Joubert and Massena. The latter, with some help from the others, inflicted a severe defeat on our allies at Loano towards the end of November. Fortunately for them, instead of taking advantage of this victory, General Scherer then decided to go into winter quarters. But now that spring approaches the outlook of the Allied cause in Italy is far from good. "With regard to the Rhine, you saved us there. On Pichegru's deliberate failure to take Heidelberg, General Jourdan's army was compelled to fall back. He recrossed the Rhine and retreated down the Moselle to Traabach. The Austrians followed but the winter has been so severe that by December neither army was in a state to fight further. On about the 19th they agreed an armistice, and Jourdan has established himself in a fortified camp on the heights above the town. Pichegru, meanwhile, had allowed himself to be thrown out of Mann­heim. He then retired across the Rhine to his old lines at Weissenburg. There, on December the 31st, he too signed a winter armistice. But there has been a leak, or at least a suspicion, that he is no longer to be trusted. As far as I know he has not yet been arrested, but he has been suspended from his command."

"Then we cannot hope to buy further help from him."

"No; and when we attempted to bribe Jourdan we failed in it He hung our agent from the nearest tree."

"What of Russia?" Roger enquired. "Has the old Empress Catherine furnished the Austrians with the help she promised?"

"No. We now have little hope of her doing so, and I greatly doubt the capacity of the Austrians to get the better of General Jourdan in the spring: for now that General Hoche has again pacified La Vendee the bulk of the great army which has been tied up there for so long will probably be transferred to support that on the Rhine."

"May I ask, Sir, if you have further considered letting the French know through diplomatic channels that you would be willing to enter into negotiations for a peace?"

"We have gone so far as to consult with Vienna on possible terms which would be acceptable to the Emperor and to ourselves; but he is adamant on the question of the Austrian Netherlands. As you will recall, last October Belgium was divided into nine Departments and incorporated into France. This measure being so recent, it is highly improbable that the French could be persuaded to give these territories up yet the Emperor insists that their return should be a fundamental article of any settlement, and Britain could not desert her ally. There­fore no indication of our willingness to treat has yet been transmitted to Paris."

Roger nodded gloomily. "I asked only to ascertain if any move of the kind had been made. Even if it could be, and the terms were favourable, I'd place little hope on their acceptance. That is, unless there have been radical changes in the composition of the French Government."

"There have not. The five Directors are the same as when you left Paris, and they appear to be more firmly seated in the saddle than ever. I gather, though, that they are a venal crew; and since they are now virtually all-powerful, I have been wondering if we could not succeed in bribing one or more of them to sway the rest France needs peace every whit as badly as ourselves. If the bribe were big enough, and they were guaranteed against reprisals for their pasts, they might be tempted to call on the people to support them against their old colleagues in the two Chambers."

After refilling his glass from the decanter that Mr. Pitt pushed towards him, Roger-shook his head. "What could you possibly offer them more than they have? Dukedoms, Governorships and Orders would be regarded as poor bait by men who are each one-fifth of a king already. As for money, their situation enables them to collect it by the bushelful. Besides, peace in due course must bring a Restora­tion, and they would place no faith in any guarantee that could be given them. As I pointed out when last we talked of this, in upholding the revolutionary system of government lies their one and only hope of safety."

"What think you, then, of reverting to our old plan of attempting to find among the Revolutionary Generals another Monk, who would seize Paris for us. As I have said, our attempt to suborn Jourdan failed; but there are Moreau, Hoche, Kellerman, all men of great reputation, and this new man, Buonaparte, who commands the Army of the Interior."

For a moment Roger considered the matter, then he said, "Buona­parte would suit our purpose best, as he is already in Paris; so could secure it, if he would, without having to march upon it. Moreover, unless he was also privy to the plan, any of the others would find him a hard nut to crack. Unfortunately he is a convinced revolutionary, so his political convictions would prove a nasty hurdle to get over. However, he struck me as a young man of inordinate ambition; so there is just a chance that a Marshal's baton, the Chateau of Chambord, and all the other things Pichegru was to get, might tempt him to pull our chestnuts out of the fire for us."

"Then, Mr. Brook, the best service you can render me would be to return to Paris and endeavour to come to an arrangement with General Buonaparte."

Roger now had reason to be thankful that, instead of simply dis­appearing from Paris without explanation, he had evolved and put into execution a plan to cover his withdrawal. It meant that although there were always unforeseen possibilities in his dangerous work, on this occasion he could readily agree to Mr. Pitt's request, and reappear in the French capital without any evident risk.

However, the Prime Minister, giving as his reason that all too soon spring would be upon them and fresh campaigns be opening which might prove disastrous for the Allies, did press him to start upon his new mission with the least possible delay. In consequence, he again had to forgo the chance to see Georgina; and, with new blank drafts on secret funds in Paris concealed upon him, he left Rochester in a specially employed Revenue Cutter the following afternoon.

She landed him near Calais soon after dawn next morning. For the next two days he suffered cold, misery and boredom, as the diligence conveyed him, or he helped to push it, over rutted muddy roads to Paris; but he arrived there without incident a little before midday on February the 21st

At La Belle Etoile the Blanchards once more welcomed him and asked no questions. Upstairs he had a most welcome bath, changed into one of the Paris-made suits that he had left in the secret wardrobe he kept there, then came down and enjoyed a meal with his host and hostess.

This time they had little to tell him. The poorer half of the population of Paris was literally starving, but entirely cowed by the Government's troops and the reconstituted National Guard, which was now loyal to it Another third, which had either goods, or services superior to manual labour, to sell, was now benefiting from the long-hidden gold that was once more in circulation. The upper sixth crowded the salons, theatres, public ballrooms and cafes, flaunting a luxury unseen since the monarchy and a licentiousness which would never have been tolerated in the days of that most immoral of kings, Louis XV.

At six o'clock Roger had himself driven in a coach to the Luxem­burg, and enquired for Barras. He was told that at eight the Director would be holding an evening soiree; so he spent the intervening time in a cafe and returned at that hour. As in the old days at the Royal Palaces, anyone who was respectably dressed was allowed to enter, and the long gallery was soon crowded with merveilleuses, incroyables, officers, deputies, and prominent citizens. A number of them were already known to Roger; so he spent an hour exchanging bows, kissing women's hands, gossiping, and repeating over and over again his story that he had that morning returned from a stay of nearly four months in the South of France.

In due course ushers formed a lane through the throng, then Barras, resplendent in satins and with powdered hair, appeared. Walking slowly down it he paused here and there to chat with friends, had a smile for every pretty woman who caught his eye, passed to M. Bottot, his secretary, who followed him, every petition presented with a promise to read it personally, and listened graciously to a score of requests for a variety of favours.

When he noticed Roger, who, owing to his height, could afford to stand a little way back in the crowd, he waved a hand and called gaily to him: "It is good to see you again! You must join us later in the salon, and tell me what you have been doing with yourself."

The salon was reserved for the elite and into it, after Barras had walked back up the human lane, some hundred and fifty people followed him, to drink pink champagne and eat foie-gras sandwiches or pineapple ices. At about half-past ten, when the party had thinned a little, Roger saw his chance and got a ten-minute tete-a-tete with the Director over a glass of wine.

After reporting that his health was much improved, Roger said that he had bought a pleasant property on the coast near the old Roman town of Frejus where he intended to spend a good part of each year in future, as it included a number of vineyards, which he felt it would be interesting to have cultivated by the most modern methods.

"Ah!" exclaimed Barras, simulating envy. "How wise you are, my dear fellow! Nowhere in the world does one find such passionate girls as among the dark-eyed beauties of my native Provence; and in its first season I would sooner drink the rose which will come from your presses than a good Bordeaux. With wine and women, sunny days and warm nights to make love in, what more could a man want? I am a fool to stay here, wearing myself out among this riff-raff."

Roger smiled. "Even so, your prospects of continuing to derive a certain enjoyment from life appear to be considerably better than they were on the night when I last arrived in Paris. Do you remember—the 12th Vendemiaire?"

"Do I not!" laughed Barras. "But, with the help of the little Corsican, we soon put things to rights."

"How fares your one-time ragamuffin?"

"You'll do well not to remind him of his old nickname when you see him. Nowadays he struts about like any turkey-cock, jingling his spurs land ogling the women. But don't let me lead you to suppose that he is idle. He is positively bursting with ideas. And since we gave him the task to prepare plans for the invasion of England, I am really coming to believe that we shall have conquered that damned island before the year is out."

chapter XXIV

THE BRIGAND IN UNIFORM

Not a muscle in Roger's face moved but his ears felt as though they were standing out from the sides of his head. With Hoche's army in Brittany now freed, and that dynamic young Corsican charged with the invasion of England, a turn might be given to the war which had hitherto been unthinkable. In a matter of seconds his mission had been changed from a matter of investigation which might produce valuable results, to one demanding that he should stop at nothing to save his country.

That night, after leaving Barras's reception, he put in some very deep thought. The last invasion of England had been that by William of Orange, just over a hundred years before, but others had been threatened many times since; and, having spent his boyhood on the south coast, he well remembered the drills of the local fencibles, the beacons kept always ready and the occasional false alarms, which had formed a part of everyday life there until the Peace of Paris, in '83.

Since then the deterioration of the French Fleet, owing to revolution and a long series of defeats, had in the present war so far made any chance of invasion seem most unlikely. But the British Fleet was now dispersed between the Gulf of Genoa and the West Indies in many squadrons; a break-out from the French ports was always a possibility.; the enemy might succeed in landing a considerable army before their communications could be interrupted; and. as Britain had been almost denuded of troops for foreign service, that might prove positively calamitous—especially if the invading force were led by a man like Buonaparte.

Unlike Jourdan, Moreau, Hoche and several others, the young General had little military prestige to support his sudden elevation. He had rendered good service as an Artillery Commander at Toulon and afterwards for a few months on the Italian Riviera, but in the field he had not yet commanded even a Division. His present appoint­meat was a political one, and solely due to his having saved the Convention on 13th Vendemiaire. If he was to maintain his status in .the High Command, he must direct a victorious campaign, or before very long he would find himself supplanted by officers of greater experience.

For the laurels he needed what could offer better prospects than a descent on England? But it would be all or nothing. There could be no question of joining up with other French armies, going into winter quarters with hopes of better fortune the following spring, or strategic withdrawals. Cut off by the British Navy, he would have to conquer or fail utterly; and, if defeated, even if he got away himself, having lost an army he would never be given another. Therefore, he would fight with utter ruthlessness, burning, slaying and laying waste the fair English countryside in a desperate attempt to reach London before he could be stopped.

Roger recalled hearing a revealing episode concerning his mentality. In '93, when the structure of the old French army was falling to pieces owing to the Revolution, he had virtually deserted, retiring to his native Corsica because he believed he could get himself made a Colonel in the National Guard of Ajaccio. There he had become one of the most violent members of the local Jacobin Club. Several of his friends among the lesser nobility, from which his own family came, endeavoured to dissuade him from inciting the roughs of the port to make trouble. Instead of agreeing he at once made another inflammatory speech, in which he declared that in such times there could be only friends and enemies, that all moderates must be classed by true patriots as enemies, and that, like Solon in ancient Greece, he advocated punishing with death every man who remained neutral during civil discord.

If he had really meant that, it suggested that he would show no mercy to man, woman or child should he command an army that succeeded in landing in England. In any case he promised to prove a most formidable opponent, and Roger decided that any approach to him must be made with the utmost wariness; so that before even hinting at his purpose to the Corsican, he would do well to get to know much more about him than he had learned during their short acquaintance.

The following day, as a first step, he called on the Permons because their apartment in the Chaussee d'Antin was the only place in which he had seen Buonaparte relaxed and natural Madame Pennon, with her son and little daughter, was at home, and received him kindly; but he soon learned that his hope of meeting Buonaparte there again, through cultivating the family, was doomed to disappointment, for not long since he and Madame Pennon had had a serious quarrel.

Apparently she had asked him to secure for her cousin a commission in the Guards, and he had promised to do so; but, although reminded several times, had failed to bring it to her. In consequence, when next he had called she had upbraided him as though he were still a school­boy, and snatched her hand from him as he was about to kiss it As this had occurred in front of several of the young General's staff officers, he had been deeply mortified, and had ceased to visit her.

However, as the ex-protege of the unpretentious family had now become such a luminary, they were willing enough, when encouraged by Roger, to talk about him.

Monsieur Pennon had been a French official of some standing, and while the family were living in Toulouse it had transpired that one of three Corsicans lying ill and in money difficulties at a local inn was the husband of Letitia Buonaparte, Madame Pennon's girlhood friend. They had at once taken him into their house where, after a long illness through which Madame Pennon had nursed him, he had died. This had naturally strengthened the ties between the two families, and when the Pennons had moved to Paris they had taken a special interest in the orphaned Napoleon.

His father, being without fortune but able to prove that his family had been noble for four generations, had secured his admission as a King's charity pupil to the Military School at Brienne, at the age of nine. It was his poverty in contrast with the wealth of his noble school­fellows there which had formed a bitter streak in his character and, later, led to his becoming such a fervid revolutionary.

Of this bitterness the Pennons had had plenty of evidence after he had graduated to the Military School in Paris in '84. He was too proud to accept money, until M. Pennon forced upon him a small sum on the pretext that it had been left by his father to be given to him in an emergency; and at times his outbursts against his rich brother cadets had been quite terrifying. He had, too, in his early years been fanatically devoted to the cause of Corsican independence, and had never forgiven his father for deserting Paoli, the Corsican patriot leader. On this score too he had been given to launching the most violent diatribes, and while at Brienne had been severely punished for shaking his fist and screaming imprecations at a portrait of the Due de Choiseul, Louis XV's minister, who had urged on the conquest of Corsica by France.

His nickname there had been 'the Spartan' but, on the rare occasions when he could afford it, he loved personal display. Little Laura related how, when he had at last obtained his commission, he had come in his new uniform to see them. Having been made by an inexpensive tailor it was of poor material and ill-cut, and his legs were so lean that, in his big high boots, they looked like broomsticks; but he had strutted up and down as though he were already a Field Marshal. Laurette had been so amused that she had christened him Puss-in-Boots; but he had taken her childish raillery well, and, although he could ill afford to buy expensive toys, had, next day, brought her a walking Puss-in-Boots carved from wood.

The violence of his temper was equalled only by his colossal assurance about his own abilities, and by the vividness of his imagination, as he was always producing grandiose schemes for his own advancement. During the period of his disgrace he had conceived the idea of going off to reorganize the army of the Grand Turk and, without even writing to ask n the Sultan would like to employ him, had applied to the War Office for permission to do so. It had been granted, and he had only been prevented from leaving for Turkey because somebody else at the

War Office had suddenly discovered that he had ignored an order to report for duty with the Army of La Vendee, so cancelled his permit to go abroad and had his name erased from the list of Generals.

The possibility of improving his fortune by a good marriage had also occupied his imagination. First he had proposed to Desiree Clery, the sister of his elder brother, Joseph's wife, but she had refused him. Then he had produced an extraordinary project for a triple union between the Permon and Buonaparte families. Albert was to marry his pretty young sister Paulette, Laura was to be given to his boy brother Lucien, and he, although the recently widowed Madame Permon was more than twice his age, was to espouse her. They laughed a lot over this crazy notion, but Madame Permon assured them that he had made the proposal to her in all seriousness.

From the evening's talk with the Pennons Roger formed the impres­sion that Buonaparte had inherited from his half-peasant mother the temper, pride and toughness of a Corsican brigand and that his mind was subject to erratic twists sufficiently marked for him to be regarded as a little mad.

Next day, however, to get another intimate opinion he invited Andoche Junot to dine with him, and afterwards he felt that he ought to modify his opinion, at least to the extent that the Corsican's madness generally had method. Making liberal allowances for the young A.D.C.'s passionate devotion, it could not be contested that his idol had frequently displayed a cool head, sound judgment and shrewd foresight.

There had been, for example, the occasion of Buonaparte's arrest and imprisonment after 9th Thermidor. Had he been sent to Paris, as the protege of the elder Robespierre and the bosom friend of the younger, his risk of following them to the guillotine would have been a high one. Knowing that, Junot had offered to collect a few friends, break into the prison and rescue him. But Buonaparte had refused the offer, and the reason he afterwards gave for his refusal was that if— as he did succeed in doing—he could get his case dealt with locally, he would stand a good chance of being acquitted, whereas if he allowed himself to be forcibly rescued he would become an outlaw and have lost his Commission for good.

Again, his having ignored the order to proceed to La Vendee had not been a temperamental act, but a calculated risk. For one thing he had not wanted to have it on his record that he had been engaged in fighting French peasants; for another he felt that, although he was then employed only in the Topographical Section of the War Office, if he remained in Paris, where all appointments of importance were made, luck or intrigue might lead to his securing a far better one.

The handsome Junot, now resplendent in the uniform of a Colonel of Hussars, spoke with glowing admiration of Buonaparte's qualities as a soldier: his eagle eye for a battery position, his instantaneous decisions, and his complete fearlessness in battle; then with a shade of awe in his voice he touched on his General's other qualities: his intenseness, his extraordinary personal magnetism, and his ability, by no more than the direct glance of his eyes, to reduce men who were much older than himself, and in authority over him, to stammering inanity.

After dining well at the Cafe Rampollion they parted, and Roger went on to Madame Tallien's. Tall, graceful, her dark hair cut au Titus, in an aureole of short curls round her shapely head, Theresa Tallien looked as lovely as ever. As Roger edged his way through the court she was holding, to kiss her hand, he thought it by no means surprising that her uncle, whose ward for a time she had been, had gone so mad about her when she was still only fourteen that he had done his utmost to persuade her to marry him. On the other hand, Roger was quite shocked by Tallien's appearance, as he now looked much more than his age, grey-faced and ill. Later in the evening he heard from a fellow guest that his old colleague of the Commune had recently been subjected to a most unpleasant shock, which, no doubt, partially accounted for his lack-lustre eyes and woebegone appearance.

In order to marry Theresa he had divorced his first wife, but as she was still a young and attractive woman, and remained in love with him, he had continued to feel a tenderness for her, and kept her in their old home. However, his treatment of her had been capricious and so much so in recent months that, on his ignoring an invitation to breakfast with her one morning not long since, she had decided that he had at last made up his mind to abandon her for good. Actually that was far from being the case and he had all the time intended to go as a little surprise for her. On arriving at the house he found her being carried downstairs covered with blood. She had just committed suicide from despair.

The affair had shaken him terribly, but Roger could not help feeling that it was only a very small instalment of what was due to him for his many crimes during the Revolution.

After a while Roger got Madame Tallien to himself for a few moments, and, when they had conversed for a little, he remarked: "I have not so far seen General Buonaparte. I had expected to find him here, as he was always a regular attendant at your evenings."

"He comes no more," she replied, then added with a laugh: "He is angry with me. A few weeks ago he suggested that I should divorce poor Tallien, in order to be able to marry him; and when I refused he took great offence. But he consoled himself quickly enough. For the past month he has been dancing attendance on my sweet friend Josephine de Beauharnais." "She has, then, received him more kindly?" Roger hazarded. "Poor dear, she hardly knows what to do. He is pressing her to marry him with the same fierceness as if she were an enemy fortress upon the taking of which the fate of France depended. And his letters, to her! You should but see them. The passion he displays for her is quite frightening, and in parts they would make a grandmother blush. Fortunately, she has a pretty sense of humour, so is able to alleviate her fear of him by keeping her mind on the comic spectacle he presents when he declares his passion for her."

After two more days given mainly to apparently idle chatter with numerous other people many of whom had known Buonaparte for a considerable time, Roger decided that he was now as well briefed as he could hope to be for a meeting with the Corsican. Wishing it to appear a chance one, on the 26th he spent some hours hanging about the Jardin des Plantes as Junot had happened to mention that, either in the morning or afternoon, the General usually took his exercise there; and soon after two o'clock Roger's patience was rewarded. At a brisk walk, coming down one of the paths towards him, was a short, spare figure wearing a grey overcoat and an enormous hat, the brim of which was turned up in the front and at one side, and had a three-inch wide border of gold galon round it

On their greeting one another it transpired that Buonaparte had heard of Roger's return from Barras; so when they had spoken of the South of France and touched on their mutual memories of 13th Vendemiaire, it was quite natural that they should fall into step and continue then walk side by side. Roger had then only to mention the war to set Buonaparte off on a non-stop monologue.

He had an ugly Italian accent and his speech was frequently ungrammatical, but everything he said was lucid, and the trenchant expressions he used were always to the point As he reviewed each battle area in turn he criticized without mercy the Army and Corps commanders, although he had never handled a Brigade himself, and they were the men who in the past three years had gained France a score of victories. He declared that the failure of the campaigns of '95 on both the Italian and Rhine fronts had been due to scandalous incompetence, and proceeded to lay down the law about what each of the generals should have done and when he should have done it.

When he had talked himself hoarse Roger managed to get a word in, and remarked: "No doubt you are right about the Italian campaign; but are you quite convinced that it was not something other than incompetence which led to our armies having to fall back across the Rhine?"

After giving him a sharp glance, Buonaparte rapped out: "You have, then, heard these rumours about Pichegru? Do you believe them?"

"I hardly know what to think," replied Roger cautiously. "His failure to take Heidelberg was in such striking contrast to the abilities he previously displayed that either the rumours are true, or he has become the victim of a sudden softening of the brain."

"The latter must have been the case, or something like it Even conceding that he may not at heart have been quite such a pure patriot as he pretended, and making allowance for the weakness to which all men are subject I cannot believe that he sold his country. What could he possibly have stood to gain?"

Roger had now brought the conversation to the point he wanted,

and he said casually: "I'm told that he was offered the baton of a Marshal of France, a Dukedom, the Governorship of Alsace, the Chateau of Chambord, an income of..."

With an impatient gesture Buonaparte cut him short "What do such baubles and fripperies amount to in these days? Since we now have no Marshals, as the most successful General in the Army of the

Republic he was already the equivalent of one. And who but a madman would wish to be called Duke or Excellency at the price of having to dance attendance on that fat fool of a Bourbon Prince? As for chateaux and incomes, they will fall like ripe plums into the hand of any man who has the ability to carve with his sword a writ for them on the broken armies of our enemies. No, I cannot believe that any sane General who had victory in his hands, as Pichegru had, or even a remote prospect of it, would barter glory for such a mess of pottage."

So it was that Roger received the answer to his mission. As Buonaparte clearly believed that it was now only a matter of time before he got an opportunity to cut an enemy army into pieces, there could be no doubt whatever that he was unbribable. To wage war and win glory was his lodestar, and had he been offered the Crown Jewels, a Viceroyalty and the Bank of England, he still would not have given such a proposition a second thought.

There was only one thing upon which Roger felt that he could congratulate himself. It was that his approach had been made so skilfully that the young General could not possibly suspect that he had started the conversation with any ulterior motive. He was, there­fore, shaken to the roots of his being when, a moment later, Buonaparte said:

"Am I right in believing you to have been born an Englishman?"

chapter XXV

DESPERATE INTRIGUE

The question was a really alarming one. It might mean only that Buonaparte had heard a garbled version of one of the several accounts Roger had given of himself in the past; but it might mean that recently there had been some leak connecting him with London, and that Buonaparte, who now combined the functions of Chief of the Police with his Command, had come upon it in a report, so did in fact suspect him.

"No," he said, after only a second's hesitation. "What gave you that idea?"

"Your name cropped up at Madame de Stael's one night a few weeks ago. Someone was asking what had become of you, and an argument developed between the Deputy Freron and a ci-devant Marquis, whose name I do not recall. The one maintained that you began your career as an English journalist, and having been sent over here, like the Deputy Tom Paine, you abandoned your country out of enthusiasm for the Revolution; the other, that you were an Alsatian who had once been secretary to a nobleman, and later appeared at Versailles, a young exquisite, calling yourself the Chevalier de Breuc."

Greatly relieved, Roger was able to reply: "There is something of truth in both their accounts of me; but I was born a Frenchman and my political convictions have ever been those of a Republican." Then, feeling that this was an admirable opportunity once and for all to dovetail the varying beliefs held about him by different strata of society in Paris, he went on:

"I was born in Strassburg. My father was a Frenchman of moderate fortune, my mother the daughter of a Scottish Earl who had run away with him. Both died when I was quite young; so my mother's sister, who had married an English Naval officer, took charge of me and I went to live with her in southern England. She gave me a good educa­tion, but I always longed to get back to France. At the age of fifteen, I ran away and succeeded in doing so. For some years I devilled in a lawyer's office in Rennes; then I became secretary to the Marquis de Rochambeau. In '87, owing to a duel, I was compelled to fly from France, so naturally returned to England. There I took up journalism, and through it became acquainted with many of the Whig nobility who were eagerly following the agitation for reform in France.Their influence with the French Ambassador secured me a pardon which enabled me to return, and their introductions gained me the entree at Versailles. But, after a while, the news-letters I sent to my paper proved too revolutionary for the liking of my paymasters, and when I became a member of the Jacobin Club they cut off my remittance. Having no other source of income I was again compelled to return to England, but my Aunt was also out of sympathy with my revolutionary principles, so refused me help, and for the best part of two years I ad a hard time of it making enough by my pen to support myself. By then the Revolution had progressed to a point where I felt that I must play a further part in it; so once more I came back to France. Shortly after my return I was elected a member of the Commune. Later I was given several missions as Citizen Representant by both Robespierre and Carnot. It was in that capacity, you will remember, that I first met you at the siege of Toulon. My more recent history you already know."

He had taken certain liberties with his earlier cover stories, such as stating that his mother had been Scottish, and that it was not a godmother but an aunt who had had him educated in England, because he felt that the nearer the truth he could go the safer he would be against future eventualities. But no one would, after all this time, be able to recall with certainty the exact degree of relationships he had given them; and he felt great satisfaction at having at last blended into a concrete whole the two roles he had played.

As he ceased speaking, Buonaparte, seizing upon the one essential that interested him, exclaimed: "Then you have lived long in England, and must know that country well! There are matters in which you can be of great use to me. Please return with me to my office."

"With pleasure," Roger replied. "I take it you refer to your projected invasion of the island?"

The young General halted in his tracks, swung round and snapped: "Who told you aught of that?"

Roger shrugged. "Why, Barras, of course. Since it was I who first brought him, Tallien and Dubois-Crance together for the planning of 9th Thermidor, he naturally takes me into his confidence about many matters."

"I am relieved to hear that it was not through idle gossip which might get to one of Mr. Pitt's agents. This concept is of the highest secrecy, but seeing that you are to be trusted, it is as well that you should know the whole truth. It will enable me to use your knowledge of the country to much better advantage."

As they walked towards the entrance of the gardens, Buonaparte asked: "Have you seen Tallien since your return?'

"Yes. I was at his house three nights ago. I thought him looking very ill."

The General grunted. "Tallien is finished. His first wife's suicide has disturbed his mind. In any case he played a double game once too often when he ordered the execution of those poor devils of emigre's after Quiberon. The reactionaries will never forgive him, yet we now have proof that he was coquetting with the Royalists, so he will never again be regarded with confidence by the Government I told his wife as much. But she is a fool, and I have no patience with her."

Roger, knowing the reason for this outburst, had a quiet laugh to himself, and was even more amused.when Buonaparte went on:

"Now her friend, Madame de Beauharnais, is very different. She is a most sensible as well as charming creature; and the way she has brought up her two children does her the greatest credit. The Revolution hit her hard, but instead of whining about the shifts to which it brought her, she courageously adapted herself to changed circumstances. Her little girl, Hortense, she apprenticed to a milliner, and the boy, Eugene, to a carpenter; yet owing to their mother's training neither has become the least degraded by their menial occupations. On the contrary the manners of these two lovely children are most distinguished. It so happened that the father's sword came into my possession, and not long since I gave it to young Eugene. His acceptance of it brought tears to my eyes. His one ambition is to be a soldier, and he swore to me that he would die rather than dishonour it. Such a family show all the best qualities of the old aristocracy, and I greatly delight in their friendship."

By this time they had reached the gate, where the General's coach was waiting. As they got into it and drove off Roger began to run over in his mind all that had transpired in the past half-hour. His original mission had gone up in smoke, as it was clear that he might as well have tried to bribe a brick wall as the fiery little Corsican; but luck and the skilful handling of the conversation had compensated him by providing a new opening. If he continued to play his cards well it looked as if he would at least be able to obtain full particulars of Buonaparte's plans for the invasion of England.

The coach set them down in the Rue des Capucines, at the fine house Buonaparte now occupied adjacent to his headquarters. Without a word he took Roger straight upstairs, unlocked a door, and led him into a room containing a huge table littered with papers, and having several large maps pinned up on the walls.

Throwing his gold-laced hat down on a chair Buonaparte motioned Roger to another, shuffled through the papers, selected a bulky folder from among some others, sat down himself and said sharply: "Now, be good enough to give me your help by answering these questions to the best of your ability."

The interrogation, on the results of which Buonaparte made copious notes, lasted over three hours. It concerned not only forts, beaches and the approximate strength of garrisons along the part of the south coast that Roger admitted to knowing, but also on the ability of various areas to support men and horses, and the degree of sympathy for the principles of the Revolution which an 'Army of Liberation' might hope to find among the labouring population of the towns.

In answer to the purely military questions Roger gave more or less truthful replies, as he knew they could, and would, be checked by minor spies. About the amounts of stored grain, fodder and other foodstuffs which were likely to be found by an invading army he could afford to be fairly pessimistic, and when it came to the question of support from the Methodists, Corresponding Societies, and other anti-monarchist bodies in Britain he was able, quite honestly, to pour an icy douche upon the General's hopes.

"You must not," he said, "judge these people by the amount of noise they make, and the fact that from time to time troops have to be called out to put down some local riot. They already enjoy a far greater degree of liberty than did our people here in France before '89. That there is a widespread agitation to bring about a more even distribution of wealth is true; but if it succeeds it will be mainly through gradually increasing pressure being brought to bear on Parliament by the many gentry, and others, who in recent years have shown a strong desire to better the lot of the masses. As for the idea that English sans­culottes in Southampton or Portsmouth would rise on the appearance of your troops and set about massacring their masters, pray disabuse your mind of it They would not even lift a finger to help you. In fact all but a very few would instantly forget their grievances and, remem­bering only that they were Englishmen, rush to help in defending their country. I have addressed meetings of these men, and wasted much of my time endeavouring to incite them to more vigorous action; so in this you may rest assured that I know what I am talking about."

Buonaparte looked somewhat disappointed, but shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Ah well, that will make little difference. Victories are not gained by mobs but by superior numbers of well-disciplined troops; and we shall have that for the British have practically denuded the island of regulars."

"You have got to get your troops there, and a great quantity of stores, to enable you to launch your first offensive. Are you not afraid that the British Navy will come upon and destroy your transports?"

"No. We shall send a squadron of our oldest ships out from the Biscay ports to lure the Channel Fleet down towards Portugal. That will give two or three clear days at least for our crossing. The main French Fleet will then offer battle to the British on their return."

"It could never hope to emerge victorious from such an encounter."

"I do not expect it to. It is to be sacrificed."

"You mean that every ship will be ordered to fight to a finish."

"Yes; the loss of a score or so men-o'-war is a bagatelle to pay for the success of an operation of this magnitude. By their action they should so cripple the British Fleet that it will no longer be in any state either to blockade our ports effectively or protect more than a small part of the coast of England. Thus we shall be able to make subsidiary landings in other areas at an acceptable risk; and by the time the British have summoned their squadrons from the Mediterranean and the West Indies I shall be in London."

Roger shook his head. "The plan sounds feasible enough but, saving your presence, I doubt the ability of any man to carry it out. I have good reason to hate the English, but I know them well. It is seven hundred years since the island was conquered; so they have freedom in their blood, and will resist far more desperately than would the people of any continental nation."

"I tell you it is entirely a matter of troops and their handling. We shall have more-and better trained ones. Their generals, like those of the Austrians, are old and set in their ways. They will not stand a chance against me."

"The whole country will swarm with partisans. You will find a man with a shotgun behind every hedge, and every village will become a death-trap."

Buonaparte laughed, but it was not a pleasant laugh. "Don't worry! I shall find a means to subdue them. England is at the bottom of all our troubles, and sooner or later must be conquered. Until she is France will never enjoy her rightful place in the world; so it might as well be now. Once we get ashore there I'll be in London in a fortnight, and if need be I'll burn the capital to the ground unless these stubborn English submit to my will."

This, coupled with what had gone before, was evidence enough that Roger had been right in his assessment that the Corsican would set about matters with complete ruthlessness, and having failed to damp his enthusiasm for the task it seemed pointless to produce further arguments against its chances of success; so he asked:

In what month do you intend to launch this great operation?"

"That depends on several things. There is much yet to be done. Hundreds of ships and barges will have to be collected, and great quantities of stores sent to the ports for loading into them. I shall need the whole of General Hoche's army. He favours the plan, but wishes himself to create a major diversion by leading a descent on Ireland. That would mean an unsound dispersal of our forces, so must be stopped. Then although the Directors are much interested in the project, they have not yet given a definite assent to my proceeding with the preparations."

"Should they finally decide against it, what then?"

"Then they must give me one of the other Armies. I have no intention of remaining here to act as their pet policeman."

"You have been so successful at it that they may well insist upon your doing so."

Buonaparte's dark eyes narrowed. "I do not think they will. They have failed to please every section of the people, even their own party. They are the pinnacle of a pyramid that has a hollow base. A single jolt would be enough to bring them tumbling down. They cannot afford to offend a man like myself."

"Yes. I think you are right about that," Roger agreed. "All the same, for your own reputation, I could wish that you were pressing them for some other employment than the conquest of England."

"I am, but they refuse it to me. England can wait. Her turn will come. First we should smash the Austrians in Italy. That is the task I covet beyond all else. I know something of that country already, and have made a special study of the rest. Look! I will show you how it should be done."

Jumping up, he began, with hands which Roger noted again were remarkably shapely, to point at place after place on a map of Northern Italy affixed to the wall. As he spoke his fine eyes dilated, and it was evident that every mountain chain and valley of the country stood out as sharply as an etching in his mind. From the rapidity with which he outlined his plan it was clear that he must have already endeavoured to persuade many people of its possibilities. It had boldness, vision and grandeur—involving no less than the seizure of the Lombardy Plain, a great turning movement through the Alps to join up with the Army of the Rhine and, finally, an advance direct upon Vienna.

When he had done, Roger asked: "What had the Directors to say to this great plan of yours?"

"Carnot approves it and in such matters the others defer to his judgment But for some reason they are averse to entrusting me with its execution. He has sent it to General Scherer; but so timid a man as he is certain to reject it."

"Then," smiled Roger, "you will have to content yourself with the conquest of Britain."

"As spring is near upon us they must soon give me a decision on that matter. If it proved favourable I should like to take you with me. Your knowledge of these troublesome people may be of consider­able use. Will you, as you did with Barras, accept the rank of Colonel on my staff?"

Roger stood up and bowed. "I should be honoured, Citizen General. You have only to let me know when you have received consent to proceed, and I will place myself unreservedly at your disposal."

From this long interview Roger carried away only one fresh thought for comfort. The expedition had not yet been definitely decided upon. It was now for him to find out if the Directors really favoured the plan, and if so, use his utmost endeavours to change their minds, or at least try to prevent their giving so competent a man as Buonaparte the direction of it.

That evening he spent a long time thinking over all that the Corsican had said, and particularly of his references to the Directory. There could be no doubt that it was extremely unpopular. The upper strata of Paris was still a sink of glittering iniquity which offended all respectable citizens; the middle-classes groaned under every form of vexatious restriction, and the poor were nightly dying by the score from cold and hunger; yet the Government appeared incapable of remedying any of these ills.

Carnot was the only Director for whom anyone had the least respect, and he, as ever, concerned himself solely with the high direction of the war. The harmless military engineer Letourneur had, quite naturally, dropped into place as his assistant. It was said that the two always voted together, but on civil questions were always outvoted by the three rogues they had for colleagues.

Barras, resting on the great prestige he had earned on 9th Thermidor and 13th Vendemiaire, apart from making an occasional brief, trenchant pronouncement, devoted himself entirely to his scandalous pleasures. Larevelliere-Lepeaux was a crank of the first order. As the leading light of a sect called the Theophilanthropists, which was a hotchpotch of Nature worship and the teachings of numerous philosophers, he gave all his endeavours to fighting the open return of Christianity. Rewbell, meanwhile, did the work and dominated the other four; but on account of his coarseness, brutality, cynicism and tyranny was the most hated man in the country.

There being no hope of buying Buonaparte, Roger again considered the possibility of trying to buy one or more of the Directors; but all the old arguments decided him that such an attempt would be hopeless. An alternative was to try to get them turned out, in the hope that among a new set there might be men elected who would be more amenable to his purpose. Buonaparte had implied that should they get up against him he would do the job, but to incite him to it would be a dangerous game to play. It did not take Roger long to decide against risking such a move; for his interview that day had convinced him that the little Corsican might easily become a greater menace than any other man in France, and that somehow or other his guns must be spiked before he got more power than he had already. On that thought he went to bed.

The following day he succeeded in securing an interview with Barras. Once they were closeted together, he wasted no time in beating about the bush, but said straight out:

"Tell me, is Le Directoire really giving serious consideration to this plan for allowing Buonaparte to invade England?"

"Well, more or less," Barras admitted cautiously. "It started by our instructing him to investigate the possibilities, simply to keep that active mind of his out of mischief. But he has produced such cogent arguments in support of its practical application that we are much tempted to let him have his way. Hoche is m favour of it, but he differs from the little Corsican in wishing to make a simultaneous landing in Ireland."

"Of that I am aware. I spent above three hours yesterday discussing the project with Buonaparte."

"And what is your opinion of it?"

"That it cannot possibly succeed. He knows nothing whatever about England or the British people. I, on the other hand, as you may know, was sent there as a child and spent most of my youth there; so I am in a much better position to judge what a hornet's nest the place would become did we stick a finger into it."

"Apart from your misadventures after 9th Thermidor I did not know that you had lived there for any length of time; although I was aware that you acted as Paris correspondent for several English papers during the early years of the Revolution. So you do not approve the plan?"

"I am convinced that it would be suicidal."

Barras made a face. "It would open with mass suicide anyway; for Buonaparte declares it essential that we should sacrifice the whole of tihe Fleet That is the major reason why Carnot hesitates to give die plan his support."

"You may take it from me that in addition to losing the Fleet you will lose an Army. Buonaparte must have hypnotized you all, or you would not give another thought to this madness."

"His personal magnetism is, I admit, quite extraordinary; but it is not that alone which has led us to being near giving him his head. You may perhaps have remarked that he has grown in stature since 13th Vendemiaire."

"He certainly has. I see the situation now. You are afraid of him?"

"I am not, personally. After all, he is my protégé. I made him what he is: so he will never do me any harm. But Le Dlrectoire as a whole feel that he is a man who can no longer lightly be crossed."

"In other words they fear that if he is not promoted he will promote himself?"

"Exactly."

"They are right in that. He said as much to me yesterday. He is as avid for glory as a pirate for loot Unless he is given the command of an Army in the field I rate him capable of overturning the Government"

"I agree. That is why we are contemplating letting him go off to England."

"Surely to lose the Fleet and fifty thousand men is an expensive way to placate him?"

"We might not lose them, but gain a great triumph over our enemies."

"You might be crowned Paul I of France in Rheims Cathedral, but that is equally unlikely. Why not give him another Army? Give him the Army of Italy. It is that after which he really hankers.

"No." Barras shook his head. "To do so would be too dangerous. You cannot have forgotten the lessons that the Romans taught us. In a dozen instances their victorious Generals turned their legions about and marched on Rome. If we gave Buonaparte the Army of Italy or the Rhine that is the risk we should run. At any time he might decide to oust us and make himself First Magistrate. But the Army of England would be a different matter. If he succeeded in conquering the island we would make him Proconsul of it. That would keep him busy for a long time to come, and we should have nought to worry about"

"You will if you adopt his plan. When he has lost his Army and the Fleet, it is you and your colleagues who will be called to account for it. You'll be lucky if you get as far as the guillotine. Tis more likely that the people will tear you all limb from limb."

"It is a Government's business to take such risks. All decisions which may lead to major victories or defeats are gambles."

"One does not gamble sous against louis d’or. Ask some of the emigres who have lived for several years in England if I am not right. Those stubborn islanders will fight to the last ditch. If you could land a quarter of a million men in a week the thing might be done; but that is utterly impossible. Again, Buonaparte's pet theory is that given anything near equal numbers the side which uses its artillery more skilfully will always win a battle. Within three days of landing he'll have run out of shot."

"No. He plans to seize the arsenal and cannon foundry at Portsmouth."

Roger gave a contemptuous laugh. "That cannot be done over­night. He must land on beaches out of range of the forts. To reach the Hampshire coast his men must be conveyed over near a hundred miles of sea. Nine-tenths of them will stagger ashore helpless as children from sea-sickness. They'll be hard put to it to defend themselves even from the local militia for the first twenty-four hours; so the garrison at Portsmouth will have ample time to set its house in order. Should the port appear likely to fall, you may be sure that they will blow up the arsenal and the foundry before Buonaparte can capture them. And what then? Within a week every man in Southern England will have armed himself and be on the march. Like a countless pack of wolves they will fall upon our troops, and from sheer weight of numbers drive them back into the sea."

"It is a grim picture that you paint; but I think you over pessimistic. In any case, this enfant terrible must be given active employment of some kind; and what alternative have we?"

"Give him the Army of Italy, which he so much desires."

"I have already told you that Le Directoire are averse to doing so, and their reason."

During the lengthy consideration that Roger had given to the whole subject the previous evening, he had foreseen that the Directors might be afraid of entrusting Buonaparte with an Army which could be turned against them: so he had thought out a scheme which would, perhaps, overcome their objections. Having, he felt, got Barras into the right frame of mind to consider his idea seriously, he said:

"I think there is a way in which you could make reasonably sure of Buonaparte's fidelity."

"I should be much interested to hear it."

"You will be aware that for the past year he has been subject to a most powerful urge to get married?"

"Yes. He has now set his heart upon Josephine de Beauharnais, and is wooing her with the impetuosity that he displays in everything."

"Exactly; and she is a chere amie of yours. Everyone knows that she is greatly indebted to you, and it is even said that the house in which she lives is your property. How far would you trust her?"

"To almost any length. She is a sweet-natured and honest creature. Out of gratitude for all I have done for her, I feel confident that she will ever use such influence as she may have in my interests."

"From what I know of her myself, and all I have heard, I supposed as much. I suggest that you should bind her still more strongly to you by persuading her to make what can hardly fail to turn out a brilliant marriage. Give her as a dowry the command of the Army of Italy for Buonaparte, Then he will be bound to her and you will have someone in the closest possible relation to him who will put a curb on his ambitions should they threaten the authority of the Directory."

Barras considered for a moment. "It is a most ingenious scheme; but before it could be put into operation there are several objections which would have to be overcome. Firstly, she does not love him."

"That is what makes the plan all the sounder. If she did she could not be trusted; as things are she can. Somehow we will persuade her to accept him."

"Perhaps that could be done. But the Army of Italy is not mine to give. Carnot was greatly impressed by Buonaparte's plan for the destruction of the Austrians, so might agree; but Rewbell is the stumbling-block. He would certainly refuse, as he has several times expressed the opinion that Buonaparte is getting too big for his boots and that we shall be well rid of him if we send him to England."

"If you can win Carnot over, Letourneur will follow his lead, and that will give you a majority."

For a further quarter of an hour they discussed the plan in detail. At length Barras said: "Then I will see La Belle Creole tonight, and if you will call upon me at the same hour tomorrow I will let you know the result of our talk."

That evening Roger attended Madame de Chateau-Renault's salon, as it was there he had first met Josephine, and he felt that, now she had become such an important pawn in his game, he would do well to develop her acquaintance. His hope of finding her there was realized, and having engaged her for some time in conversation he remarked that he had heard that she had two very beautiful children. She replied with becoming modesty, yet her pride in them was evident. He then said how fond he was of young people, and asked permission to call upon her so that he might see them. Her consent was readily given and she invited him to take tea with her the following day.

Next morning, eager to learn how his plan was working, he waited as arranged on Barras. The Director told him that matters had not gone too badly, then he said:

"To be the wife of the Commander of the Army of Italy is a position which any woman might envy_; and Madame de Beauharnais is much tempted by the idea. But she is still troubled with grave doubts, and she did not disguise from me that she was greatly worried about some other matter. What it is she would not confide in me, but I've a shrewd suspicion that Citizen Fouché" is at the bottom of it. Not once, but several times, she dragged his name into our conversation and begged me to get him made a junior Minister, or give him some other consider­able post that would rescue him from the poverty and disgrace into which he has fallen. But he is a rogue and mischief-maker of the first order, and I had to tell her frankly that I'd lift not a finger to help him.'^?

"It is unfortunate that some private worry should be distracting her mind at this particular time,' Roger remarked. "However, it is good news that where previously she made a mock of the little Corsican you have now persuaded her to consider him seriously. What is the next move to be?"

"I shall see her again, of course, and continue to press her. It might help now, though, if she could be encouraged to it from some other angle. Do you know her well enough to call on her and, apropos of nothing in particular, sing Buonaparte's praises?"

"With that very object in mind I got her to invite me to take tea with her this evening."

"Excellent!" Barras smiled. "Keep in touch with me, and I will inform you of any fresh developments."

At six o'clock Roger had himself driven to the house that Barras had lent La Belle Creole. It was a small two-storey villa at the end of a long passage and its entrance was flanked by two stone lions. On arriving there he recognized it as the petite Maison that the wife of Talma, the famous actor, had formerly been given by one of her rich lovers; so it had a somewhat dubious reputation, which matched Josephine's own. Roger had already learned that, although quite a number of ci-devant nobles frequented her twice-monthly 'drawing-room', very few of their wives did so, and he wondered again why a woman of her age and circumstances should hesitate to make a marriage which would both restore her respectability and secure her future.

He was shown into a drawing-room at the back of the house with two french windows opening on to a little garden. There a few moments later Josephine, accompanied by her pet poodle Fortune, joined him.

She received him with the unaffected grace that was one of her principal assets, and in the intimacy of her own apartment he soon began to realize more strongly than he had previously done the peculiar quality of her attraction. It lay in a melting expression, languorous grace of movement, and a mysterious suggestion that her body, if embraced, would be found to be quite exceptionally soft and yielding. After a few minutes she called in her children and presented them to him. The girl, Hortense, promised to be a beauty, as she had a good skin, a profusion of fair hair and a pair of large dark-blue eyes. The boy, Eugene, who was getting on for fifteen, was a fine manly lad, and it was obvious that both of them adored their mother.

While Roger had served on Barras's staff during the previous October, he had seen quite a lot of Buonaparte at the War Office; so, in due course, it was easy for him to bring the General's name into the conversation, and speak of his fine qualities. Josephine did no more than murmur polite agreement, and began to fiddle a little self­-consciously with the tea things; but young Eugene took up the tale with unrestrained enthusiasm. The Corsican was now his hero; the episode of the sword was told in glowing phrases, and it transpired that, when old enough, he had been promised a commission.

"If you are to become one of General Buonaparte's officers you will also need pistols," Roger remarked. "Have you any?"

"Alas, no, Monsieur," came the quick reply. 'After my father's death, my poor mother was compelled to part with nearly all his things in order to feed us."

"Then Madame," Roger bowed to Josephine, "permit me, I pray, the pleasure of presenting your charming son with a brace of weapons to go with his sword."

At first Josephine demurred, but she was quite used to accepting gifts from men; so she needed only a little pressing to agree on behalf of her boy.

The matter had only just been settled when the Deputy Freron was announced. Roger had got to know him well at the siege of Toulon and had met him on many occasions since. He was now a man of thirty, and after the coup d'etat of 9th Thermidor, in which he had played a vigorous part, he had become more strongly reactionary than any other of the ex-Terrorists. As Fouché had told Roger some months before, Freron, with extraordinary astuteness, had used his paper, L’Orateur du Peuple, to make himself the leader of the jeunesse doree; but his past was far from having been forgotten by Roger.

It was Freron who, while Representant en Mission at Marseilles, had ordered a volley to be fired into a mass of Royalist prisoners; and. when they had fallen in a screaming, bloody heap, called out: 'All of you who are not dead, stand up, and you shall be spared.' Then, when the survivors took him at his word and staggered to their feet, he had ordered a second volley to be fired.

To find such a man in the house of a woman whose husband had been guillotined was no more than a symptom of the times, and Roger had no reason to believe Josephine to be particularly high principled; but he was slightly nauseated by what followed. Freron had not come there to pay his respects to Madame de Beauharnais; almost at once he began openly to ogle pretty little Hortense. Then he produced some tickets for a public ball at the Hotel de Richelieu and asked if he might take the mother and daughter to it; upon which the young girl jumped for joy. Roger made suitable excuses and took his leave.

Having allowed a day to elapse, so that he should not appear to have an ulterior motive in his visits, on March the 2nd, somewhat later in the evening, Roger called on Josephine again. With him he brought a case containing two fine silver-mounted pistols, which he had bought the day before. Eugene was delighted with them, as they were far more beautiful and expensive than anything he had expected. At the sight of them Josephine became somewhat thoughtful; then after a while she sent her children out of the room. When they had made their adieux she said to Roger:

"Monsieur, please tell me why, since we have no claim on you other than the honour of a slight acquaintance, you have made my son this magnificent gift?"

He smiled. "Madame, I will at least take the credit for a genuine wish to give so promising a young man pleasure; but, since you ask me, I will confess to having also had the hope that should General Buonaparte come to hear of it, he too will be pleased by this small attention to a family in which he is so deeply interested."

"You have, then, heard of the attentions with which he has honoured me?"

"More, Madame. When I was last with him he positively raved to me about you. In fact, unless you take pity on him I really fear that from unrequited love of you he will be driven out of his mind; and that would be a great loss to France, for I am convinced that a splendid future lies before him."

"So others also tell me; and I have formed the greatest respect for his character. But, at times, he makes me almost afraid of him."

"You have no need to be. Look at the affection with which your children speak of him. Young people have an instinct for judging the true disposition of their elders. And for them you could not find a better stepfather in the whole length and breadth of France."

"There is much in what you say, Monsieur."

"Indeed there is. Once married to him you would have no more anxieties. As his wife all Paris will bow before you. When little Hortense becomes of an age to marry, a score of rich and titled suitors will be contending for her hand. You will be able to make a match for her such as her beauty deserves. As for Eugene, since it is his wish to be a soldier, to rob him of the chance to attach himself to one who promises to become the first soldier of the day would be little less than cruel."

Josephine nodded. "I have thought much upon the same lines, and these arguments weigh greatly with me. Should I accept him it will be because the interests of my children are so near to my heart. But there are other considerations. For one, it would be childish of me to attempt to hide the fact that I am past my first youth. So volatile a man might soon turn to other distractions, and..."

Josephine got no further; for at that moment Madame Tallien was announced. Her entrance deprived Roger of the chance of reassuring his hostess about the power of her charms and, to his intense annoy­ance, of saying numerous other things about her mooted match with Buonaparte that, having broken the ice, he had hoped to say to her that evening.

Not long afterwards Buonaparte arrived, and, knowing that he would wish to have Josephine to himself, Roger took an early oppor­tunity of offering to see Theresa Tallien home. She too appreciated the situation and, although she had been there less than a quarter of an hour, with her usual good nature she readily consented. Just as they were leaving, she said to Josephine:

"Do not forget, my dear, that we have an appointment to visit Madame Le Normand together at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. We will go masked, of course, and I will call for you in a hackney coach, as the appointment has been made simply for two ladies, and it will be all the greater test of her powers if we can continue to keep our identities a secret from her."

"I had not forgotten," Josephine laughed. "I adore fortune-tellers, and I do hope that this renowned sibyl will predict exciting futures for us both. Adieu, sweet Theresa! Adieu till tomorrow!"

On the way downstairs Roger asked the stately Theresa for Le Normand's address, saying that he must, some time, consult her himself. She gave it to him and in her coach he saw her to her front door, but politely declined an invitation to come in; whereupon she insisted on it taking him back to La Belle Etoile. There he went up to his room, loosened a floor board, and took from beneath it one of the purses of gold that he always kept hidden against emergencies. Then, going out again, he walked through a misty drizzle that had just begun to Le Normand's house in the Rue de Journon.

At first the woman who answered the door there refused to admit him on the plea that her mistress had to conserve her powers, so never saw clients after six o'clock. But Roger clinked his gold and slipped her a piece, which induced her to let him in and lead him to a parlour on the ground floor.

As she fit the candles in it he saw that on a table in its centre there lay scattered face up a pack of Tarot cards, and among them a large crystal on an ebony stand. There was no stuffed alligator hanging from the ceiling, no tambourines, or other charlatan's aids, left about; but Roger had not expected there would be, as he had often heard of Le Normand and she had the reputation of a mystic with genuine gifts. She had, according to current belief, correctly predicted the dates upon which numerous people who had consulted her would be sent to the guillotine and, with great boldness, foretold to Robespierre his approaching fall.

When he had waited there for a few minutes a middle-aged woman came in. Her clothes were of rich material but untidily worn, and beneath the fine lace draped over her head wisps of grey hair stuck out. She had big eves, very widely spaced, and regarded Roger from them with quiet self-composure. Having curtsied to his bow, she asked:

"What does the Citizen require of me?"

"I come," Roger replied, "not to ask you to tell my fortune, but on a business matter. First let me make it clear that I respect such gifts as yours; I have a dear friend who has several times foretold the future correctly for me, but through her I have also learned the limitations of such powers. They cannot always be called upon at will. Therefore, when used professionally there are times when aids having nought to do with the occult must be employed to give a client satisfaction."

A slow smile dawned in Madame Le Normand's large eyes, and she said: "Since the Citizen is so well informed upon such matters, I will not deny that a skilful probing of the enquirer’s circumstances is often most helpful in becoming en rapport."

Roger bowed. "I can then aid you beforehand with regard to two ladies who have an appointment to consult you at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. The taller of the two is Madame Tallien, the shorter and slighter Madame de Beauharnais."

"Why does the Citizen bring me this information?"

"Because I wish you to exert a beneficial influence on the mind of Madame de Beauharnais. She has recentiy received an offer of marriage, but is hesitating about accepting h. That she should do so is greatly in her interest, because her present position is precarious; whereas this match would both secure her own future and ensure a most promising future for her two children. The proposal does not come om myself but from General Buonaparte. It would, I think, be over­doing matters to disclose his name, but I should like you to speak well of him, as a man of generous disposition and a soldier of great promise, who will bring happiness to the woman he marries."

Producing the silk net purse through which the gold glittered dully, Roger laid it on the table and added: "If you are willing, I should like to leave this with you; so that you may buy some article of value, by which to remember your part m promoting the fortunes of a widow and two orphans."

The sibyl took up the purse and held it tightly clasped in both hands for a few moments, then she said quietly: "Citizen, you have lied to me. This purse may contain louis d'or but it is, nevertheless, foreign gold. It was not concern for a widow and two orphans that brought you here tonight. You have some other motive for desiring this marriage to take place. An endeavour to alter a person's Fate by such means always recoils on the head of him who makes it. It will do so in your case. Yet I will do as you wish; because never before have I felt so strongly the influence that guides me, and I already know beyond any shadow of doubt that to do so will be for the glory of France."

"Citoyenne." Roger replied a trifle huskily, "what you tell me is most perturbing; but in this I have no personal end to gain, and I honestly believe that this marriage will be to the advantage of Madame de Beauharnais; so I can only hope that Fate will let me off lightly."

Her strange, widely-spaced eyes held his for a few seconds, then she said: "I believe you. It must, then, be not you who will suffer, but the cause you serve.

As the door of the house closed behind Roger, he found himself badly shaken. For the first time it occurred to him that it might have been better to let Buonaparte break himself once and for all on the shores of England than simply to get him out of the way for the time being by engineering his being sent to Italy, from whence he might return covered with glory to become an even greater menace. But on second thoughts he decided that he was playing the right game. With England practically denuded of troops, the risk that the invasion might succeed was too great a one to take. Even now that awful possibility was far from having been ruled out, as it was by no means certain yet that Josephine would accept Buonaparte; or, even if she did, that the Directors would finally decide to give him the Army of Italy.

On the latter question Roger was given better grounds for hope when he went to see Barras the following morning. General Scherer had returned Buonaparte's plan to Carnot with a curt note to the effect that he had no use for it, and that if the Directory were set upon it they had better send the rash fool who had made it to carry it out. Thereupon Carnot had decided to support a policy of taking him at his word. But the proposal had still to get through the Comite.

It was Barras's vote which would now prove the deciding factor; but, in spite of all that Roger could say about the criminal lunacy of an attempt to invade England, the Director made it clear that he would not support the proposal that Buonaparte should supersede Scherer, unless the plan for exerting a secret influence over the Corsican by means of Josephine could be carried through. He added that no time must be lost in getting a definite decision from her, as once the proposal came officially before the Comite it would have to be settled one way or the other.

More anxious than ever now to learn what effect Josephine's after­noon visit to Le Normand had had, and feeling sure she would speak of it if he could get a word with her, Roger went that evening to Madame Tallien's, but Josephine did not appear there; so somewhat belatedly he went on to Madame de Chateau-Renault's. There he found her, but she was with Buonaparte, who soon afterwards escorted her home, and Roger was left to exercise as much patience as he could till next day.

As early in the afternoon as convention permitted, he went to the little villa in the Rue Chantereine. Josephine looked somewhat surprised to see him, but he took the bold line of saying that he had been sent by Barras to tell her that Carnot's opposition to Buonaparte's being given the appointment he so greatly desired had been overcome, and that it now remained only for her to say if she was willing to present it to him as her dowry.

Raising her eyebrows a little she said: "I was not aware that Barras expected any opposition to his plan. He led me to suppose that every­thing depended on myself."

"Ah! Roger hedged. "That was because he wished to give you time to get used to the idea, while he was working to win over two colleagues on Le Directoire. Now that he has done so, within forty-eight hours the matter must be settled one way or the other. As voting is by secret ballot he can still sabotage his own proposition if he wishes; and will, do you not consent But he would be mightily put out should you now refuse to take this splendid opening that he has been at such pains to provide for you."

She motioned Roger to a chair and said as she sat down on another: "I would be a heartless wretch were I not sensible of the gratitude I owe him. No woman could ever have had a more generous protector. As for the future that this marriage promises, yesterday I went with Theresa Tallien to consult the sibyl Le Normand. Should only half the things that she predicts for it come true few fortunes could equal mine. I am still overwhelmed by the things she told me."

"She has a great reputation," Roger smiled. "And I am truly de­lighted that the omens should be favourable. Will you not tell me what she said?"

"It sounds utterly fantastic. She spoke of palaces and crowns. She said that Buonaparte's star is the most brilliant in all the heavens. That Kings will bow down to him. That he will make me a Queen. That in his footsteps my Eugene will also become a great General. He will, too, be a Prince, and little Hortense like myself a Queen."

For a moment Roger wondered uneasily if any of this might be due to true second-sight, or if it was simply that the sibyl had given him full measure in payment for his gold. Then Josephine caught his attention again as she went on:

"I'd not believe a word of it, but for one thing. When I was a young girl in Martinique an old negro woman of partly Irish descent predicted just such a future for me. More, she also foretold the troubles that would come upon France, my marriage to M. de Beauharnais, and the manner of his death."

Roger was much impressed and no little perturbed; but true to his principle that first things must come first, he said seriously: "Such confirmation can leave you in no doubt of your destiny. Pray, Madame, accept my congratulations. With your permission then, I will return to Barras and tell him the good news; leaving it to you to acquaint General Buonaparte that through you he is to receive the first step to his magnificent fortune."

"Nay! wait!" She stretched out a hand to stop him as he rose.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Surely you cannot mean that you are still troubled by doubts?"

"Yes. Indeed I am!"

"How can you even contemplate the rejection of these great gifts that the gods are prepared to shower on you and your children?"

"I do not wish to; but it may be that I must."

"How so? You are your own mistress! What in the world is there to prevent your marrying General Buonaparte other than your own hesitations?"

Instead of answering his question, she leaned forward and said earnestly: "Monsieur, you are most sympathetic. Although our acquaintance is a short one, I feel that you are my friend. You are, I know, a great friend of Paul Barras. Could you persuade him to grant me a favour?"

Roger returned her glance with some surprise. "Madame, I can hardly think that my influence with him is greater than your own. But I will willingly serve you in any way I can.

"It concerns Citizen Fouché. Much ill has been said of him, but he is a good man at heart His calumniators have brought about his ruin, but I would much like to see his excellent mind once more employed in the interests of his country. If you would serve me, use your utmost endeavours to persuade Barras to give him some suitable appointment"

"Forgive me, Madame, if, before agreeing to do as you wish, I ask you one question. What has this to do with the project of your marriage?"

Josephine began to twist her fingers together in evident agitation. "I beg you, Monsieur, do not press me on that. It concerns a matter in my past which I would prefer not to discuss. Please let it suffice that though I do not love General Buonaparte, I would do my best to make him a good wife—if ... if only this other matter could be settled."

"Madame, you imply that Fouché is holding you to ransom?"

"No, no! He is most well disposed towards me, and acting in this as my friend. It is for that reason I wish to oblige him. He comes of a shipping family that once owned estates in the West Indies but the Revolution robbed him of any private income, and now that he is no longer a Deputy he is in sad straits."

Her mention of the West Indies suddenly rang a bell in Roger's brain. Coming to his feet, he exclaimed: "I have it now! Fouché has found out about your marriage to William de Kay."

Josephine's big eyes widened. Springing up, she gasped: "How . .. how can you know aught of that?*

Roger had to think quickly. After a second he replied: "When I was living in England I had the story from a Mr. Beckwith, a British merchant who had lived in Martinique for many years."

"I knew him," Josephine murmured, pale to the lips. "Oh, Monsieur! You are wrong in thinking that it is Fouché who is blackmailing me, but right in thinking that I am again being victimized on account of that youthful folly. It has proved the curse of my life."

"I happened to hear of it only by the merest chance, and would have thought it by now long since forgotten."

"I had hoped it was, or at least that I was cleared of it A few years after I was married to M. de Beauharnais, ill-fortune caused us to take a mulatto among our servants. He turned out to be the brother of a woman slave who had been brought up in my father's household, and from her he had had the whole story. He demanded money from me as the price of his silence. For a time I paid him; then when I could no longer afford to meet his demands, I told my husband. I swore to my innocence and he believed me. All would have been well but for an evil woman who pretended to be my friend while having designs upon him. She so worked upon his mind that he decided to go to Martinique and ferret out the truth. When he returned he brought an action with intent to repudiate me. Fortunately for myself, good friends of mine succeeded in having the case removed from Paris to a provincial court where he had no influence. There was no proof that my marriage to William de Kay was a legal one, or that it had been consummated; so a verdict was given in my favour. Later my husband and myself were reconciled, and I lulled myself into the belief that I had been punished enough for the deceit I had practised on my parents."

"Indeed you have, Madame. But I beg you to calm yourself. That this mulatto rogue should have appeared again is naturally a grave annoyance to you, but now he should not prove difficult to deal with."

"He has no part in this. I know it for certain that he was killed in a riot during the Revolution."

"I see. So some other is now attempting to blackmail you. Am I to understand that Fouché is acting as your agent, and endeavouring to buy this person's silence?"

"Not that, exactly. I am not quite so simple as to fail to realize that in serving me he hopes to serve himself. But I think him right in his contention that it is far better to eliminate the blackmailer than to pay, perhaps indefinitely. His suggestion is that, if I could obtain for him some Ministerial office or high appointment in the Police, without giving any reason he could issue a warrant for the rogue, then secure an order for his deportation; and that would be the end of the matter."

"But Madame, one moment!" Roger spread out his hands. "Why allow the restoration of your peace of mind to be dependent on restoring

Fouché's fortunes? Why not go direct to Barras? He could do all that is required with a stroke of the pen."

"It is not so simple, Monsieur. Fouché refuses to reveal the identity of the blackmailer."

"Even so, Barras could deal with this. He could put his police on to shadow Fouché night and day. The one rogue would soon lead them to the other, and the whole affair be settled without causing you the least embarrassment."

"No," she shook her head violently. "That I will not have. Fouché may be a rogue, but he knows how to keep a secret Barras does not. He is the biggest gossip in all Paris. Did I confide in him it would ultimately do me near as much damage as if I allowed the blackmailer to do his worst."

For a moment Roger was silent, then he said: "But really, I cannot see what you have to fear. Since the Court gave a verdict in your favour, you are already proved innocent Should this old scandal be dug up you can afford to laugh at it"

The laugh that Josephine gave was a bitter one. "Monsieur, I have not yet acquainted you with the crux of the matter. This person has in his possession a diary that I wrote during my love affair with William. That he actually has it I know, for I have been sent some of the more harmless leaves from it. In it I referred to William as my husband, and wrote many things the memory of which now causes me to blush."

Roger drew in a sharp breath. "You are right, Madame. This is serious."

"Serious!" she echoed, her voice rising hysterically. "Should my diary be published, for me it would be the end! The end, I tell you! The ultimate degradation! For all their lives my poor children would bear the stigma of bastards. As for myself, should I marry Buonaparte and this were disclosed, for having consciously made him a party to bigamy and the laughing stock of Paris I believe he would strangle me with his own hands."

In a swift succession of flashes, like those given off by an exploding Chinese cracker, Roger saw the sequence of situations which threatened to arise from this new development. Unless the diary could be recovered Josephine would not dare to marry Buonaparte. If she would not marry him, Barras would not risk entrusting him with the Army of Italy. Unless Buonaparte was given the Army of Italy he would insist upon being allowed to carry out his plan for the invasion of England.

Once more Roger had a mental picture of the old High Street of Lymington, his home town, in flames; and he knew that it would be only one of many; for, although the invasion might be repulsed later, nothing short of a tempest could stop the initial landings. Somehow, if it was the last thing he ever did, he had to get hold of and destroy that diary.

chapter XXVI

BLACKMAIL

That evening, after Roger had supped, he went to Fouché's little house. The ill-favoured Madame Fouché answered the door and showed him into the poorly furnished sitting-room. Fouché was there working upon some papers. As soon as the two men had greeted one another, she discreetly withdrew and went upstairs.

Without looking at Roger, Fouché motioned him to a chair and said: "I heard you were back in Paris; but the state of things here has altered little since you left, so I felt that it would be pointless to seek you out."

"It would have been," Roger agreed. "The time has not yet come to make a move in the matter that we talked of when last we met."

Fouché sighed. "I feared as much; although your corning here momentarily raised my hopes that I might be wrong. To what, then, do I owe this visit?"

"I wished to inform myself if your circumstances had improved during my absence."

"That was considerate of you. The answer, alas, is no." Fouché made a gesture of disgust towards the papers on the table. "Here is fine work for one whose words were once hung upon in the Chamber. These are calculations showing how much it will cost to feed young pigs until they reach a certain weight and can be sold at a few francs profit."

"Indeed! I had no idea that you had any experience of farming or raising animals."

"Nor have I. But the ex-Deputy Gerard offered to finance me if I would buy a few litters and fatten them swiftly by forcible feeding, then share the profits with him. So now I spend my days on a farm in the suburbs cleaning out pigsties."

"You would, then, be glad if I could put you in the way of earning a considerable sum?"

Fouché gave a quick snuffle. "There are few things you could ask of me that I would not do in order to improve my present wretched situation."

"The matter depends only on your willingness to do a deal with me. This afternoon Madame de Beauharnais confided to me the gist of some recent conversations she has had with you."

"Ah!" Fouché's bloodless lips twitched in a faint smile. "So you know about the diary, and have come to try to buy it for her?"

"Yes. How much do you want for it?"

"I have not got it."

"No matter. You know who has, and could get hold of it"

"Even if I could, I would not sell it"

"Why not? I am prepared to pay you handsomely."

Fouché shook his head. "It is worth more to me than money. That diary should prove the means of obtaining for me a new chance in life."

"In that, I fear you wrong."

"Why so? Madame de Beauharnais has great influence with Barras. He could easily procure for me an appointment in the Administration, and that would bring me in a regular income. Once back, too, I should soon find opportunities of furthering my fortunes. Such a prospect is much more valuable than a sum of money down."

"It would be if Barras were agreeable to do as you wish, but he is not."

"I see no reason why he should refuse. Everyone knows my capa­bilities, and there are plenty of men with far worse records than mine holding office. My enemies in the two Chambers might make some outcry, but they have no power in such matters now. Within twenty-four hours people would be talking of something else; Barras would have done himself no material harm, and I should have the means of supporting my unfortunate family."

Roger shrugged. "Your reasoning is sound enough; but the fact remains that Barras has refused Madame de Beauharnais's appeal on your behalf."

"Then she will not get back her diary. The person who has it is no fool, and would not part with it even if I offered the half of as big a sum as I might hope to get from you. The intention is to retain it and keep her bled white through monthly payments of as much as she can afford. That, my own interests apart, is why she should give Barras no peace until he does something for me. I have always wanted a post in the Police. If she could get me one, I could deal with the blackmailer for her in such a way that she would have no more to worry about."

"Again your reasoning is sound enough, but is made impracticable of application owing to the ill-will that Barras bears you. Therefore some other means must be employed."

"What have you to suggest?"

"That you should sell me the blackmailer's name and leave me to handle the matter of getting back the diary."

Fouché gave an angry snort. "I have already told you that in this lies my only hope of re-establishing myself in the career for which I am best fitted. Is it likely that I would sacrifice such a chance for a hatful of ready money?"

"You would be well advised to; otherwise you may get nothing."

"There, you are quite wrong. Even if Barras proves adamant, a steady income can be made out of Madame de Beauharnais; and as the go-between I'll get my share of it."

"Do not delude yourself. She is far from rich, and you will be lucky if you receive even a first small payment."

"On the contrary, the prospects of La Belle Creole becoming a good milch cow were never better. A reliable little bird told me that General Buonaparte is pressing her hard to marry him. In her situation she would be mad to refuse such an offer. Once she is Madame Buonaparte, not only will she feel it more necessary than ever to buy our silence, but she will have ample means to do so."

"You have yourself alluded to the factor which will prove the nigger in your woodpile," Roger announced with a grim little smile. "Madame de Beauharnais opened her heart to me this afternoon. She is shrewd enough to guess that you are banking on General Buonaparte's proposal to her, and knows that should she not give you satisfaction you may attempt to bring about her ruin. But she is a courageous woman, and so prepared to face up to this crisis you have forced upon her. She is also an honest one. She declared to me that nothing would induce her to marry the General with this sword of Damocles hanging over her head. And she went further. Rather than suffer a perpetual drain upon her very limited resources as the only alternative to having her children proclaimed bastards here in Paris she will take them to Martinique. There, her youthful indiscretion is known to most people and already condoned; so the most you can hope to gain is as much as you can screw out of her to buy your silence while she makes her preparations for leaving France."

Roger had misrepresented matters with considerable ingenuity as Josephine had no idea of returning to Martinique, and the suggestion that Fouché might get a little money from her rather than nothing at all was a touch of genius. It was that, no doubt, which caused him to accept the statement as the truth. His grey, blotchy face twitching with annoyance, he muttered:

"How cursed am I with misfortune that this bridge to a steady income should have broken under me. I was counting on it to ease the burden that my poor wife has already carried far too long. Since, then, I must do a deal with you, what are you prepared to pay?"

"Onehundred louis"

"Such an offer is absurd, and you know it! To this woman the securing of her future, at the very least, be worth a thousand."

"It might be if she had a thousand, but she has not. It is I who am paying, simply to buy her future goodwill. To me that is worth one hundred, and no more. That is double what you might hope to get from her direct; as did you press her to the limit I doubt if she could raise fifty to keep you quiet. Remember, too, that having settled with you I shall still have to deal with the person who has the diary."

"What sum do you propose to offer for it?"

"By adopting your own plan, I hope to get it for nothing. I have no doubt that if I tell Barras a suitable story he will furnish me with a deportation order. The threat to execute it should be enough to ensure the surrender of the diary. But rather than go to extremes, which might result in the story getting about, some payment may be necessary to clinch the matter; so for your part in it I'll go to no more than a hundred."

Fouché's red-rimmed eyes narrowed slightly as he stared down at his long bony hands, which lay crossed upon the table. Suddenly he spoke again. "You have always stood well with Barras, and the casualness with which you speak of getting a deportation order from him is evidence that you do so still. ‘I’lll make a bargain with you. Get him to give me some post and I'll forgo the hundred louis."

"I have already told you that he is averse to giving you anything."

"Tis true that he refused the pretty Creole; but perhaps he feels that he has already done enough for her. If you put in a good word for me he might view the matter differently."

"I greatly doubt it."

"I feel sure he would; particularly if the request were a modest one. I will forgo my hopes of a Prefecture, or something of that kind. Let it be only a Commissionership in the Posts, or Customs, or in connection with Supplies. Anything will serve provided it enables me to get back into the service of the Government. Surely you could persuade him to do that much for me."

Roger considered for a moment After all, it meant nothing to him if there was one rogue more or less in the Directory's Administration; and Fouché was not asking for the moon. If he could be procured a minor post and the British Government be saved a hundred louis in consequence, so much the better.

"Very well, then." With a nod, Roger stood up. "Mark me, I promise nothing; but I'll do my best for you. Now, what is the name and address of the person who has the diary?"

Fouché too, stood up, but he shook his head. "I fear you must wait for that until I learn what Barras is prepared to do for me."

"No." Roger's voice was sharp. "This matter is of no great importance to me, and I've no mind to run back and forth to Barras about it That he will not give me a blank deportation order is certain; so if I am to ask for one I must have the name. Give it me and when I-ask him for the order I will also ask him to do something for you. If that does not content you, then you had best count me out of the matter altogether."

As Fouché could have no means of knowing the immense importance that Roger actually did attach to the affair, and, from his point of view, the great urgency of settling it, he was taken in by the bluff, and said:

"I see that I must trust you. The woman's name.."

"Woman?" Roger echoed in surprise.

"Yes; woman. She is the sister of a mulatto, who before the Revolu­tion was a footman in the Beauharnais household."

"I see. Yes; Madame de Beauharnais mentioned him to me. Please go on."

"Her name is Madame Remy." "And her address?"

Fouché hesitated, and, Roger guessed, was about to hold it back as a last card, on the pretext that to secure the deportation order it was not necessary; but now he had the name the game was in his hands, and he said quickly:

"Come! Since you have trusted me so far, there is nought to be gained by hedging. I need only ask Barras to put his police on to her to have her run to earth."

"True. Very well then. She lives not far from the prison of La Force. You proceed past it down to a row of dwellings that back on to the short stretch of river between the bridge to the Isle St. Louis and the bridge to the Isle Louvier. Her lodging was at one time an artist's studio and lies on the immediate right of a drinking den frequented by the wharf-hands who work in those parts."

'M3ood. Tomorrow morning there is this big parade of troops returned from La Vendee, at which the Directors are to take the salute; so I shall not be able to secure an interview with Barras until the afternoon at earliest. Be in all the evening, and some time during it I will call to let you know what Barras has decided regarding you."

With a nod, Fouché followed Roger out into the passage. As he opened the front door for him, he said: "This means a great deal to me. Please remember that and do your utmost to get me something with a salary which will enable me to keep my wife in a little comfort.

"Everything depends upon how deeply Barras is prejudiced against you," Roger replied, "but I promise you I will do my best." Then he went out into the night

As soon as he had dined on the following day, Roger went to the Luxemburg. It was a dull, rainy afternoon and the twilight of early March was already falling as he descended from a hired coach outside the Palace. Having paid off the man, he sent up his name, but he had to kick his heels in an ante-chamber for over an hour before M. Bottot came out and said that Barras was free to see him.

As soon as they were seated, Barras said: "When your name was brought in I was on the point of sending for you, to let you know that our project with regard to Madame de Beauharnais has now become one of the greatest urgency. Since you were last here I have had no opportunity to see her, and if she is still opposed to the match, this evening is our last chance to persuade her to alter her mind. The question of Buonaparte's appointment is the first item on the Comite's agenda for tomorrow morning."

"Then I am happy to be able to tell you," smiled Roger, "that the matter is settled; and favourably to our designs. Or all but settled."

"All but?" repeated Barras, with a sharp lift of his eyebrows.

"Yes. As I told you two days ago she had an appointment to consult Le Normand. Her visit to the sibyl convinced her that by accepting Buonaparte she would ensure both herself and her children a brilliant future. On their account even more than her own she is now anxious to make the match; but one thing still deters her from com­mitting herself. She is being blackmailed."

"On account of what?"

"Ah episode in her past which she refuses to disclose. Naturally, once married and with funds at her disposal, she fears that the screw will be turned upon her. That would be bad enough, but should there come a point at which she could no longer pay, the blackmailer might make the matter public."

Barras shrugged. "Surely she is making a mountain out of a mole­hill. Everyone, including Buonaparte, knows well enough that the life she has led since her husband's death has been far from irreproachable."

"I agree; and so can only suppose that the episode was of a some­what different nature from a clandestine amour the disclosure of which might do no more than tarnish her reputation."

"I wonder, then, what the devil it could have been."

"As far as we are concerned the particulars of it are, surely, quite irrelevant. What does concern us is her fear that, should it be made public subsequent to her marriage, Buonaparte would suffer so greatly m his amour propre, that in one of his well-known furies he might do her a damage. Hence her refusal to accept him, unless this menace to her peace of mind can first be removed."

"If she will provide us with a lead to the blackmailer, I can put a discreet man in the police on to it," Barras said with a frown: "But the devil of it is that we now have so little time."

"I already have the lead," Roger replied quietly. "And tonight should be time enough in which to do the job, providing you will give me your assistance."

"Thank God for that! After first raising my hopes, you had me badly worried. What help do you want from me?"

"The blackmailer is a woman named Madame Remy. As she lives down by the docks she can be of no social consequence, so her dis­appearance will cause little comment. Give me an order for a squad of troops, so that I may arrest her, and another for her immediate deportation to Cayenne.

Barras nodded. "You are right. That is the way to deal with this. Few people survive the fevers mere for more than a few months; and even if she did succeed in escaping, with the order still in force against her, she would never again dare to show her face in France."

Drawing two sheets of paper towards him he quickly wrote out the transportation order, and another empowering Roger to collect a squad of men for duty from the palace guard. As he pushed them across the table, Roger said:

"There is another matter. Joseph Fouché is involved in this. You will recall that Madame de Beauharnais has several times begged you to give him some post?"

"And I refused her!" cut in Barras with a frown.

"So you told me. But you then knew nothing of this affair. In it he has been acting as a go-between. With his usual cleverness when fishing in troubled waters, he hoped first to land himself a post, then use it to obtain a deportation order against the blackmailer."

The corners of Barras's mouth turned down in a sneer. "Why not say that, with his usual treachery, he hoped first to land himself a post, then use it to betray this Madame Remy whose employment of him had enabled him to obtain it?"

Roger shrugged. "The one statement is as true as the other; and the last thing I would undertake is to defend Fouché's morality. I was thinking of the issue simply as Madame de Beauharnais undoubtedly did when she made her plea for him to you. The question is, what can you do for him?"

"Do for him? Nothing! Now that you have stepped into his shoes for the eliminating of the blackmailer, why should I do anything?"

"Because without his help our hands would still be tied. It was he who gave me Madame Remy's name, and her address. In return I promised to do my best to persuade you to find him a place—preferably m the Police."

"In the Police! God forbid! I would be out of my wits did I give such a knave the chance to spy upon us and learn all our secrets."

"Very well then; something in the Customs, or, perhaps, Education. He was once a teacher."

"Nay, I'll not do it!" Barras shook his head. "The, Directory is already unpopular enough, for a score of reasons. During the Terror Fouché made himself one of the worst hated men in France. To give him a post of any importance would arouse howls of protest in both Chambers."

"Then let it be some minor position to which no one can take any great exception: chief of one of the Supply Depots, or a Prison. At the moment he is keeping pigs for a living; so any place where he could earn a reasonable income at a desk would be counted by him a blessing."

"No! Let him continue to keep pigs. I'll do nothing for him!"

"I think in refusing you make a great mistake," Roger said seriously. "The man is near desperate, so might prove a danger to us."

"In what way? With the actual blackmailer you now have the means to deal. Fouché has acted only as a go-between."

"Even so, that has enabled him to learn La Belle Creole's secret. Admittedly he could bring no proof of her lapse, whatever it may have been; but there is nought to stop him from accusing her of it. How he gets his information these days, I've no idea; but somehow he had picked up the rumour that she is contemplating marriage with Buona­parte. Unless you provide him with something to keep has mouth shut, there is always the risk that out of spite he will go to the General. His word alone, if the story he tells is sufficiently plausible, might be enough to put Buonaparte off the match; then we d have had all our trouble for nothing."

"I see, I see," Barras murmured, half closing his eyes. "You are right. In that way he might still upset our plans at the last moment; and the one thing we cannot afford to risk is the marriage falling through after Buonaparte has been appointed to the command of the Army of Italy. Very well then."

Taking another sheet of headed paper he wrote several lines upon it, signed it, sanded it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, then gave it to Roger with the remark:

"There! That should serve to keep his mouth shut. Take it to him with my compliments. When you have dealt with the other matter I should be glad if you would return here, however late the hour may be. I must know that everything has been settled satisfactorily before the Comite meets tomorrow morning."

Roger took the jewelled watch from his fob and glanced at it. "The time is now ten minutes past seven. I see no reason, if the woman is at home, why this business should take me more than two hours. Should it do so you will know that I am having to wait at her dwelling for her; but at latest I should be back by midnight."

Down in the great entrance hall he presented his order for a squad of men to the Lieutenant on duty, who from the reserve guard furnished him with a Corporal and three guardsmen. A hired coach was called up and they all got into it. then Roger gave the coachman Fouché's address, as he had decided to see him first before making the much longer journey to the other side of the river.

They were hardly out of the Palace courtyard before it became apparent that the Corporal, a middle-aged man with a walrus moustache, who said his name was Peltier, was both garrulous and disgruntled. Now that free speech could again be indulged in without fear of prosecution, everyone aired their criticisms of the Government, but he seemed particularly bitter about the turn things had taken.

He was, he declared, a 'patriot', and had deserved far better of his country than it had done for him. Had he not been one of those who had led the attack on the Bastille on the never-to-be-forgotten 14th of July, and fought with the brutal Swiss Guards in the gardens of the Tuileries on the equally glorious day when the Tyrant and his Austrian Whore had been made prisoners by the People; yet here he was still a Corporal. And the country had gone from bad to worse. He and men like him had shed their blood to rid it of the aristos who for centuries had battened on its life-blood. For a while it had looked as if true liberty had dawned at last; but the Revolution was being betrayed by self-seekers and speculators. They were letting the aristos come back, and worse, imitating them. What was needed was another Marat to rouse the People to their danger, and another Santerre to lead the men of the Faubourgs against the reactionaries.

Far from being impressed, Roger listened to this tirade with some impatience. He thought it unlikely that the man had been at the taking of the Bastille, and doubted if he had ever shot at anyone capable of returning his fire. He was a typical ex-sans-culotte, for whom 'liberty' meant the right to rob, rape and murder his betters without fear of reprisal and who had almost certainly got himself into the Convention Guard in order to escape being called up and sent on active service.

As they had not far to go the drive was soon over. Pulling up the coach at the entrance to the cul-de-sac in which Fouché lived, Roger got out, walked along to his house and knocked on the door. It was opened by Fouché himself. With a word of greeting Roger handed him the missive from Barras, and said:

"I bring this with Barras's compliments. He agreed that you merit attention and should be given a new field, even if a small one, for your talents. Twill at least enable you to say good-bye to your pigs." Then, having no love for Fouché, he bid him an abrupt good night, turned on his heel and walked back towards the coach.

He was only half-way to it when he heard a shout. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that Fouché was running after him, so he halted and called out:

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"The matter!" screamed Fouché" waving the document that Barras had sent him. "Why this? This infernal order! How dare you trick me in this fashion."

. "I've played no trick upon you," Roger exclaimed in surprise. .

Stamping with rage Fouché shook the offending document in his face. "You must have known what was in this! You must have! Your own words as you gave it me condemn you. 'Twill enable you to say good-bye to your pigs.' That is what you said. And that Barras 'agreed that I should be given a new field'. A new field indeed! Oh, Mort Dieu, Mort Dieu! May you both be damned for ever!"

Roger stared at him uncomprehendingly, and muttered: "I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about."

"My poor wife! My little daughter!" Fouché exclaimed with a sob. "As though things were not bad enough with us already. And now this!" Suddenly he burst into tears.

It was at that moment that a footfall behind Roger caused him to turn. To his annoyance he saw that Corporal Peltier had left the coach and was lumbering towards them.

"Get back to the coach," he said sharply. "This is no business of yours." But the garrulous Corporal came to a halt, stood his ground, and declared truculently:

"Oh yes it is! That's Citizen Fouché standin' there. I thought I recognized 'is voice when I 'eard 'im 'olla. 'E's one o' the best, an' an ole frien' o' mine. What's goin' on 'ere? What 'ave yer done to 'im?"

"I had to bring him some bad news," snapped Roger. "Now, begone with you."

Fouché had meanwhile regained control of himself, and as he dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief, the Corporal, ignoring Roger's order, addressed him.

"Remember me, Citizen Fouche⁷? Name of Jacques Peltier. I were in Lyons with yer. What times we 'ad there, eh? Remember 'ow we tied the Bible ter the donkey's tail an' fed 'im on 'oly wafers; then made them nuns dance the Carmagnol? What a night we 'ad of it too wi' some o' them novices. Those were the days. No one couldn't push a patriot arahnd then. You must remember me, Jacques Peltier."

"Yes," snuffled Fouché "Yes, Citizen Peltier, I remember you. But we are discussing a private matter; so be pleased to leave us."

"Oh, orlright then," the Corporal shrugged. "Only I don't like ter see an ole frien' pushed arahnd; an’ there's a limit ter wot we should stand from these dandified new bosses they give us."

The last remark was clearly directed at Roger, who swung round on him and said in the icy tone that he knew so well how to use on occasions: "Do you not keep a civil tongue in your head, I'll report you to Citizen Director Barras and have your uniform stripped from your back. Now; leave us this instant!"

Cowed by the voice of authority, the man shuffled off, still muttering to himself. Turning back to Fouché, Roger said: "I have little time to waste, but if you have any complaint to make we had better go inside. I've no mind to stand here wrangling within earshot of that big oaf and the other men."

Without a word Fouché stalked back to the house and through into its living-room. Roger followed and, as they came to a halt on the other side of the table, asked:

"Now! What is it you are making such a fuss about?"

"How can you have the face to ask, when you must know," Fouché retorted angrily.

"I tell you I do not!"

"Then read that!" As Fouché spoke he flung the document down on the table.

Picking it up, Roger scanned it quickly. It was on official paper and read:

ORDER OF BANISHMENT

To the Citizen Joseph Fouché.

On receipt of this the citizen above named will leave Paris within twelve hours. He is forthwith forbidden to take up his residence at any place within twenty leagues of the Capital, or to return to it on any pretext without a permission endorsed by the undersigned.

He is also forbidden for reasons of State to communicate in any way with the Citoyenne Josephine de Beauharnais, the Citizen General Buonaparte, or the Citoyenne Remy.

Should he disobey either of the above injunctions he will make himself liable to transportation for life.

Paul Barras,

For the Directory.

Suddenly Roger burst out laughing. It struck him as incredibly funny that Fouché, the ace of tricksters, should have been tricked himself. Even if he had thought of spiking Fouché's guns in this way he could not decently have done so; but Barras, being committed by no promise, had awarded the rogue his just deserts.

"Well, I'll be damned," he exclaimed, still bubbling with mirth. "I asked Barras to give you something that would keep you out of mischief, and he could hardly have done so better."

"You did intend to ruin me, then!" Fouché cried, frothing at the mouth with rage.

"No, no. I kept to my word. I asked him first for a post in the Police for you; then for one in some other department. He would not hear of the first; but at length, with reluctance as I thought, gave me this."

"If that is true, you can still save me. Return to him and get the order withdrawn."

"Nay. Barras is not a man who goes back on his decisions."'

"He will if you plead for me. I insist that you do! You owe it to me! You promised to get me a post in the Administration, even if it had to be a minor one."

"I did nothing of the kind!'* Roger was now angry too. "I said only that I would do my best for you. Barras decided on this step without my knowledge; and I tell you frankly that I find his way of dealing with the matter highly suitable. You had it in your power to wreck Madame de Beauharnais's life and that of her two children. You used that power without the least scruple in an endeavour to forward your own interests. Had you succeeded in your design you then meant to turn upon Madame Remy, who had employed you as her agent, and have her transported to Cayenne. That you have been caught in your own toils is poetic justice. Aye, and had I been in Barras's place it would not be banishment that I would have meted out to you, but transportation."

"Now you stand revealed in your true colours," Fouché cried, again trembling with fury. "After what you have said how could anyone believe that you had no hand in this?"

"Believe what you like! I give not a rap," declared Roger roundly. "I have had to use you for my own purposes and am now delighted to be shot of you, for I rate you the vilest rogue unhung."

"That comes well from a cheat and liar like yourself," Fouché sneered. "You seem to have forgotten, too, that we are partners in another matter. That is why you would like to see me transported, is it not; so that when the time comes you could keep the whole of the great prize to yourself? But try to cheat me over the little Capet and I'll see to it that you meet a worse fate than being sent to Cayenne."