Marianne

'Thank you for everything! And write to me, please.'

He gave her a quick smile and caught her outstretched hands in a grip that almost made her cry out.

'I promise! Only, you must forgive me if I write badly. I am no man of letters but, for your sake, I would do things still more difficult. If you are ever in need of anything, call on me. I will come running.'

Dropping a quick kiss on Marianne's suddenly icy fingers, he picked up his cane and left the room without a backward glance. Fouche's eyes followed him inscrutably. As the door closed behind him, the minister sighed.

'Well, there is pure, disinterested devotion for you. I congratulate you. Surcouf is a big fish and by no means an easy one to unhook. I thought I should never manage to get him away from you. But, now that it is done at last, we can have a serious talk, you and I.'

'Were we not talking seriously before?'

'Yes and no—'

As he spoke, Fouche rang a small bell on his desk. A little, yellow-complexioned, hollow chested man all dressed in black came in, bearing a portfolio under his arm, and murmured something in the minister's ear. This was Maillocheau, his secretary.

'Very well,' Fouche said. 'Take him in the other way. I'll come at once.'

With a courteous apology for the fact that he was obliged to desert his visitor for a few moments, Fouche stepped into an adjoining room, leaving the door sufficiently wide open for Marianne to see something of the room beyond. It was a small room, simply furnished, and at first Marianne gave little attention to it. She had no particular interest in Fouche's sudden visitor, assuming it to be some police matter. A criminal to interrogate, perhaps. Yes, for she heard dragging footsteps and also the clink of chains. The man must be in fetters. Marianne shivered and made an effort to turn her eyes away from the door and look at the window. But Fouche was speaking and what he said soon forced itself on the girl's attention.

'You are the Baron Herve de Kerivoas, are you not?'

'I am.'

'You are also a Chouan known by the name of Morvan. Your manor in Brittany has been used before now as a link between the insurgents and the committee in London. More recently, you have sheltered Armand de Chateaubrieant—'

There was no answer. The man was maintaining an obstinate silence. But Marianne had risen and gone quietly to the door. Two steps were enough to show her the prisoner standing full in the light. The figure was certainly Morvan's although this time it was moulded by a green coat and light grey kerseymere pantaloons tucked into top boots. But now, for the first time, she saw his face.

It was a dreadful sight, disfigured all down one side by a great scar that made a ruin of one cheek, dragged at the eye and disappeared into the hair that Marianne now saw to her surprise was short, fair and curly. The dark lovelocks she remembered must have been a wig. Only the unnatural brilliance of his eyes and the strong, mocking lines of his mouth did she recognize the man who had held her captive.

Morvan seemed perfectly at ease. He stood before Fouche, his fettered wrists held before him, contemplating his interrogator with an air of utter boredom, as though he were merely obliged to be present at some scene which did not concern him.

Fouche continued. 'It is not, however, for your activities as a Chouan that you have been arrested and taken to Vincennes where you have been, I believe, for four days now.'

Morvan bowed in silence.

'Information has been laid to the effect that you are the leader of the band of wreckers operating in that region. Have you anything to say?'

Still no answer. Morvan merely shrugged. The silence that followed weighed heavily on Marianne. Outside, a carriage rumbled along the quai but she scarcely heard it. She was looking at the wrecker's ravaged face, amazed to see the pride in it. Morvan seemed to her a nobler figure standing there, with fettered hands, flanked by the two gendarmes than in his black mask on the shore amid the raging storm. Again, came the minister's chill voice.

'You prefer to say nothing? As you like. Take him away. The magistrates may get something out of him.'

Marianne did not see Morvan go. She had only just time to regain her seat before Fouche came back into the room and shut the door behind him. He took snuff leisurely. Marianne, struggling to appear calm, was uncomfortably conscious of his eyes resting heavily on her, yet she dared not meet his gaze. Ever since Surcouf had left the room she had felt alone and defenceless. The sight of Morvan had completed her sense of bewilderment. She heard Fouche say:

'Good. Now we are alone. First, let me restore these to you.'

His hand felt for a moment in one of the drawers of his desk and emerged holding something glittering which he placed on the table. To her amazement, Marianne saw her pearl necklace and the locket containing the Queen's hair.

She made no move to take them, only stared at them in silence. Fouche laughed.

'Wake up! They are yours, aren't they?'

'Yes – but – how did you get them?'

'Off the gentleman you saw in there between the two gendarmes. You did see him, I suppose? I had him out of his cell at Vincennes on purpose to let you see him. I was well aware I should get nothing out of him. He will, I may say, not be going back to Vincennes.'

'Why not?'

'Because on the way back he is going to escape – with some little assistance on our part.'

This time, Marianne was utterly at a loss. Fouche's face was half hidden from her by the gathering dusk but she could feel his eyes on her and knew he was smiling. His smile only added to the fear that was mounting in her and when she spoke it was in a voice devoid of colour.

'You are going to let him escape? That wrecker? But why?'

'Because he is more use to me free. It would, by the by, be best for you to avoid an encounter with him. He believes he owes his arrest to a young woman sent from London by the royalist committee—'

Marianne felt the colour drain from her face. Fouche gave her a moment or two to assimilate this information before adding smoothly:

'I should not let it worry you too much. You have nothing to fear while I'm here. I know everything – and nothing is impossible for me. You will be quite safe, provided you are careful – and do exactly as I tell you.'

The last words were spoken very slowly and distinctly and now, at last, Marianne understood. Her fate, her future and her very life were in the hands of this cold, pale man; beneath his kindly manner, he was playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse. She cast one anguished glance towards the door. It was shut and Surcouf had gone. She was alone, more alone even than she had been in her prison cell in St. Lazare. A servant came in to light the candles on the desk and a golden light sprang up in the lofty room, softening the heavy green curtains. Marianne knew that she was helpless. She had no choice but to do as this man willed because she could not resume her own identity without exposing herself to the penalties of the law, or try to escape without the risk of coming face to face with either Jean Le Dru or Morvan, two men who were her deadly enemies. The trap had been well sprung! She understood now what it was to be a great policeman, it meant someone completely unscrupulous.

She felt suddenly tired and almost cold. She put a trembling hand up to her eyes in a pathetic, childish gesture as though to brush away a veil of mist that obscured her sight. Fouche's voice came to her from an immense distance.

'Come now! Don't upset yourself. Whatever you may imagine, I wish you no harm. Merely, I need someone like you.'

'Politics is a tricky business, full of traps for the unwary. By trusting you with a message of such importance, Nicolas involved you, perhaps without being fully aware of it. You are just the person I need and you have within you all you need to win your battle with life. Listen to me. Do as I say and I promise you that you will not only have nothing more to fear from the law in England, but will also rise to the most enviable position. Here, fortunes are made and lost very quickly. Will you serve me and try your luck?'

There was a hypnotic quality in Fouche's voice which both allayed Marianne's physical terror and, at the same time, chilled something within her. There was no mistaking the real meaning to his words. It was blackmail,