'He is a dangerous man, one of the Red Herring's spies.'

'The Red Herring?' Marianne echoed in astonishment.

'Lord Yarmouth, if you prefer, the present chief of the Home Office in Perceval's cabinet. His wife, the beautiful Maria Fagiani, still lives in Paris, amusing herself very pleasantly with a little court of whom our fine game-bird is one. But I've another reason apart from his spying for swearing to bring this Cranmere to book.'

'What's that?'

'His interest in the French prisoners in the hulks at Portsmouth. It seems the gentleman's fond of hunting and he's got himself a pack of hounds to specialize in tracking down escaped prisoners. I've seen some of those poor devils after Cranmere's beasts have been at them – or what was left of them.'

Black Fish's voice was hoarse with rage, his teeth clenched and his hands opened and closed convulsively. Marianne closed her eyes to shut out the nightmare vision he had conjured up. What kind of creature was this man to whom she was bound? What depths of evil and sadistic cruelty lay behind that handsome face and princely bearing? She had a brief recollection of the bargain she had struck with the Cardinal San Lorenzo and for the first time her thoughts went out to her godfather with gratitude. Anything rather than remain tied to this monster!

'Why didn't you kill him, with your bare hands?' she asked softly.

'Because I am first and foremost the Emperor's servant. Because I want him to stand trial and would not cheat the guillotine of his head. But if his judges do not send him to his death, then I swear that I will kill him, if I die in the attempt. Enough. They are letting in the public again and we must give way to the waxworks.'

Two or three people were already poking their heads curiously into the hall now that the policemen seemed to have gone. They were obviously far more interested in any traces of the drama which had taken place there than in the waxworks.

'All good things must come to an end,' Jolival said with a sigh. 'If you have no objection, I should be glad to leave this place – so many wax dummies, you know…'

'No, no, there is no need for you to remain. Only tell me where I may find you. I have to stay because I did not find the papers I was expecting on the Englishman. Someone else may yet come, and I must wait for that someone.'

'Someone who is to come here?'

'So I imagine. You be off now, my pretty. What happens now is no concern of yours. And don't you worry about his threats. He will be in no case to carry them out.'

Marianne would have liked to ask many more questions. Ever since Black Fish had appeared on the scene the mystery seemed to have deepened, like the gloom in Monsieur Curtius's dimly-lit chamber, but she knew that it was not for her to meddle in state secrets, or in police matters. If what had taken place were to rid her of Francis that would be enough. She had complete trust in Black Fish. There was something indestructible about him, neither men nor the elements could touch him. Francis had met his match in him.

Arcadius was hastily scribbling their address on a leaf torn from his notebook when, without warning, one of the wax footmen at the imperial table exploded in a gargantuan sneeze which left no doubt of the human identity concealed beneath the wax disguise. The unfortunate individual continued to sneeze uncontrollably, his hand fishing desperately in his pocket for a handkerchief. In an instant, Black Fish had reached him and had snatched the dirty white wig from his head in a cloud of dust and ancient powder.

'Fauche-Borel! I might have guessed!'

With a wail of terror the false footman sprang backwards, sending a waxwork crashing to the ground, and took to his heels, Black Fish in hot pursuit. The quarry was a small, spare man, well-designed for slipping through the growing crowd of visitors like the hunted creature that he was. Before any of the visitors could grasp what was happening, they were borne down by the charging bulk of Black Fish. Arcadius laughed outright and seizing Marianne by the hand tried to hurry her towards the door.

'Come and see! This should be fun.'

'But why? Who is this Fauche —?'

'Fauche-Borel? A Swiss bookseller from Neufchâtel who thinks himself the king of spies and devotes himself to the service of his mythical majesty Louis XVIII. He has always had a weakness for waxworks. In fact he's hopelessly incompetent. Come on, I long to see what your picturesque friend will make of him.'

But Marianne had no desire to dash off in pursuit of the disguised grenadier and a waxwork footman. The taste left by her encounter was too bitter and for all her trust in Black Fish she could not recall without a shudder that last look the Englishman had cast at her above the handkerchief stopping his mouth. She had never met a glance of such pure, implacable hatred and when she compared it with what Black Fish had told her she felt herself go cold with horror. It was as if Francis had suddenly thrown off his splendid human shape and appeared before her as the monster he really was. Until then she had thought Lord Cranmere wicked, unscrupulous and cold-hearted, but Black Fish's words had opened up an abyss of sheer, sadistic cruelty before her eyes, the murky depths of a brilliantly cunning mind joined to the unpredictable violence of a dangerous madman. No, she wanted no distractions. All she wanted was to go home to her own quiet house and think these things out.

'You go, Arcadius,' she said in a tired voice. 'I will go back to the carriage and wait for you.'

'Marianne, Marianne! Wake up! That man frightened you, did he not? And the horror of what you heard was too much for you?'

She gave him a wan smile. 'You understand me so well, my friend.'

'Marianne, you have nothing more to fear. He will not escape, he is in the safest prison in all France.'

'Have you forgotten what you yourself told me? He has Fouché's ear. Black Fish knows nothing of the Minister's secret plans for peace with England. He may be in for an unpleasant surprise.'

Arcadius nodded and, taking Marianne by the arm, led her soberly towards the door, saying as they went: 'I have not forgotten. Fouché is certainly unaware of what his guest from across the channel has been up to. He cannot ignore the fact that he has been responsible for the hideous deaths of French prisoners. In my view, to release that monster now would be to sign his own death warrant. Napoleon's care for his troops is real and he would never forgive him. Some crimes cannot be passed over and Fouché is more likely to deal with Lord Cranmere so quietly that he may well vanish without trace. Money is not the only way to silence a dangerous man. So stop worrying and let us go home.'

She thanked him with a smile and leaned more heavily on his arm. Outside, darkness had fallen but the boulevard was bright as day with a profusion of lights of every description, from candles to lanterns. Every building, from the Circus down to the humblest stall, was illuminated. Only the Epi-Scié remained dark and silent with one faint light glimmering from its grimy window-panes. However, next door, in front of the Pygmy Théâtre, the crowd seemed to be surging to and fro in unusual excitement. The two actors on the boards had stopped their performance and were standing with arms akimbo watching the extraordinary scene that was being enacted on the ground below them.

'Here – there's a fight going on!' Jolival exclaimed. 'I'll lay you it's your friend and Fauche-Borel! Bobèche and Galimafré seem to be enjoying it at any rate.'

'Who?'

'The pair of clowns you see slapping their thighs up there.' Arcadius pointed with his stick. 'The pretty fellow in the red waistcoat, yellow trousers and blue stockings with the red wig and the big butterfly on the length of wire is Bobèche. The other one, the tall, gangling creature with the long face and vacant grin, is Galimafré. They are newcomers to the boulevard but already they have had a great success.'

The two buffoons were shouting robust encouragement to the combatants, accompanying their words with much witty downing, but Marianne only shook her head.

'Please come away. Black Fish knows where to find us, he will come and tell us the end of the story.'

'Oh, as to that, there can be no doubt. Fauche-Borel is not up to his weight – but you are tired, aren't you?'

'Yes, a little.'

Slowly, avoiding the crowds, they made their way back to the Jardin Turc where they had left the carriage. Jolival helped Marianne inside, flung the direction at the driver and then climbed in himself, taking care to stow the wallet safely between them.

'What do we do with this?' he asked. 'It is unwise to keep such a sum in the house. We have the Emperor's twenty thousand livres as it is.'

'Take it back to Lafitte tomorrow, but place it in our name. It may be we shall still need it. If not, then I will simply return it.'

Arcadius nodded agreement, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and settled back in his corner as if he meant to sleep. However, after a moment or two, he said softly: 'I should like to know what has become of Mademoiselle Adelaide.'

'So should I,' Marianne said, feeling slightly ashamed that the dramatic scene with Francis had temporarily driven her elderly cousin from her thoughts. 'But surely the main thing is that she is no longer in the hands of Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis?'

'We should perhaps have made sure. But something tells me we would be wrong to worry too much about her.'

There was silence again, unbroken on either side until they reached the rue de Lille.