Marianne was no longer listening. She was standing by the window staring at a woman who had just come out of a nearby café and had paused for a moment in the doorway, a woman she seemed to know well.

'What is it?' Fortunée was saying curiously. 'What are you looking at? The Café des Aveugles is no place for you, I assure you. It is a place of very ill-repute, a haunt of rogues, pimps and prostitutes.'

'It is not the café – it is that woman, the one in the red shawl and the mouse-coloured dress. I am sure I know her. I – oh!'

The woman in the red shawl had turned her head and without another word of explanation, Marianne left her friend and darted out into the street, driven by uncontrollable impulse. She knew now who the woman was. It was the Breton girl, Gwen, the mistress of the wrecker, Morvan, who since that fateful night at Malmaison had once more become an inmate of one of the imperial prisons.

Perhaps, after all, it was not so surprising to find the wild creature of the Pagan rocks here in Paris, dressed as a respectable middle-class young woman. If Morvan were in Paris, even in prison, there was no reason why his mistress should not be there also, but a mysterious voice whispered in Marianne's ear that Gwen had other business in Paris than merely being near her lover. But what?

The Breton girl walked unhurriedly along the galerie Beauvais. Her manner was modest, almost timid, and she kept her head lowered so that her face was almost hidden by the poke of her plain grey bonnet with its bunch of red ribbons. She was clearly anxious not to be mistaken for one of the numerous prostitutes who frequented the galleries of the Palais-Royal with their outrageously painted faces and their daringly low-cut gowns. Gwen concealed her very real beauty to avoid attracting the attentions of the gentlemen who sauntered there.

In the same pious hope, Marianne had quickly let down the full, almond green veil that draped her own hat, a manoeuvre which also enabled her to follow the Bretonne without running the risk of being recognized.

The two women traversed the gallery in turn as far as the former Théâtre de la Montansier. There, Gwen turned left along the arcade leading to the rue de Beaujolais. Before she reached it, however, she looked round once or twice in a way that instantly put Marianne on her guard, and each time she drew back into the shelter of one of the massive stone pillars, apparently engrossed in contemplation of the entrance to the famous Restaurant Véfour. After a moment she peered cautiously out into the street.

Gwen was standing not far away, next to a black chaise which reminded Marianne of one she had seen on another, disagreeable occasion. The driver's face was hidden by the turned-up collar of his coat but he and Gwen seemed to be engaged in animated conversation, as a result of which Gwen turned and made her way back to where Marianne was standing. Marianne saw her cast several glances at the tall, decorated windows of the famous restaurant, as if she were interested in something or someone inside the Grand Véfour.

Gwen paused and began to stroll up and down the arcade outside. Marianne at once retreated as far as the galerie de Beaujolais, but without losing sight of her old enemy whose behaviour was beginning to appear increasingly odd. It was at this point that Fortunée Hamelin at last caught up with her friend.

'Do you mind telling me what happened?' she said. 'You shot out of Corcellat's as if the devil were after you.'

'No one was after me but I wanted to go after someone else. Would you mind if we strolled on a little way, Fortunée? I don't want to be noticed.'

'Well, you'll be out of luck, my dear,' the Creole informed her drily. 'You may have let your veil down but you're not exactly dressed to melt into the crowd, you know. Nor, I flatter myself, am I. But we'll walk on if you like. Are you still watching that girl in the red and grey? Who is she?'

In a few words Marianne told Fortunée what she knew and the Creole readily agreed that this was something worth investigating. She put forward one objection, however.

'You don't think that perhaps the girl is simply endeavouring to earn a living? She is pretty enough and there are girls here who put on airs of respectability.'

'It is possible,' Marianne conceded, 'but I do not think so. If so, what is the meaning of that carriage waiting in the street, and why is she hanging about outside the restaurant? She is waiting for someone and I mean to find out who it is.'

Fortunée sighed. 'Well of course, there are people who would be interested in the activities of such women – our friend Fouché among others. We'll see what happens. It might be interesting.'

Arm in arm, the two of them strolled idly towards the quincunx of lime trees which formed the centrepiece of the garden and back again to the point which they had left, apparently deep in conversation. Their words were lost in the babel from the countless cafés and billiard halls, booksellers and small shops of every kind which made the Palais-Royal a scene of animation for most hours of the day and night. As they walked they kept a close watch on the Breton girl, who was also strolling slowly up and down the arcade between the gardens and the street. Suddenly, Gwen froze and her two watchers followed suit. The restaurant door was opening.

'Something is going to happen, I can feel it,' Fortunée hissed, her clutch on her friend's arm tightening.

A man had come out of the restaurant, a square-built man dressed in a blue coat with gilt buttons, a high-crowned beaver perched at a rakish angle on his head. He paused on the threshold, responded with a friendly wave of his hand to the bowing of the head waiter, and then lit a long cigar. Marianne's heart beat faster as she recognized him.

'Surcouf!' she breathed. 'Baron Surcouf!'

'The pirate?' Madame Hamelin could scarcely contain her excitement. 'That fellow built like a battleship?'

'Yes, and now I know who it was the girl was watching for. Look!'

Gwen had slipped out from the shelter of her pillar and was about to pass the entrance to the Grand Véfour, dragging her feet suddenly, like a woman in the last stages of exhaustion.

'What is she going to do?' Fortunée whispered. 'Is she going to try and accost him?'

Marianne frowned. 'She is up to no good, that's for sure. Morvan hates Surcouf even more than he hates the Emperor. I wonder —' She broke off. 'Come on, quickly.'

She had a sudden fear that the girl might be concealing a weapon underneath her pelisse but no, as she came up with the king of the corsairs, she stopped and seemed to stagger. Then, putting one trembling hand up to her head, she swayed and fell in a little heap upon the ground.

Surcouf, seeing a young woman fainting at his feet, naturally sprang forward to aid her. He had his arms round her to raise her and Marianne, springing forward at the same instant, arrived in time to hear the Bretonne murmur faintly: 'It is nothing – for pity's sake, sir, help me to the carriage… close at hand. I shall be… cared for.'

As she spoke she moved her hand a little, wearily, warding off the other persons who had drawn near. But Marianne knew now what she planned. Surcouf would require no assistance to carry this slip of a girl as far as the carriage where, no doubt, there would be men lying in wait for him. He would be whisked into the vehicle in a trice and neatly carried off. A valuable hostage against the release of the wrecker – supposing the bargain was ever kept. Moreover, Marianne was sure that Fanchon Fleur-de-Lis and her associates had a hand in the affair. She did not hesitate for an instant.

Stepping up to Surcouf, who was already lifting the pretended invalid in his arms, she laid her gloved hand on his sleeve and said crisply: 'Do not touch the woman, Baron, she is no more faint than you or I. Above all, do not go near that carriage.'

Surcouf looked in astonishment at the veiled woman who had made this remarkable statement, laying Gwen down again as he did so. The girl gave an angry exclamation. 'Who are you, madame?' Surcouf asked.

Marianne swiftly pushed back her veil. 'Someone who stands greatly in your debt and who is glad to have been by in time to prevent your kidnapping.'

The sight of her face called forth two exclamations, one glad, the other furious.

'Mademoiselle Marianne!' cried the pirate.

'You!' spat the Bretonne. 'Must you always interfere?'

'Such is not my intention,' Marianne said coldly. 'If you behaved yourself like anyone else it would not be necessary.'

'Well, you were wrong! Anyone can be taken ill —'

'And be well again just as quickly! My appearance has cured you fast enough.'

A crowd was already beginning to gather, attracted by the sound of the two women's angry voices. Seeing that she had failed in her mission, the Bretonne shrugged and would have slipped away but Surcouf's large, brown hand was laid heavily on her shoulder, preventing her.

'Not so fast, my pretty. You don't run away from this quarrel. You have been accused, now defend yourself.'

'I have nothing to explain.'

'I think you have.' Fortunée's lilting tones came to them as she made her way through the crowd with two men at her heels. 'These gentlemen are most anxious to hear what you have to say.'

Black coats buttoned to the chin, battered felt hats, stout shoes and truncheons, all proclaimed that the new arrivals were policemen. The crowd parted and drew back to make way for them and the two men ranged themselves with practised ease on each side of Gwen, who began to struggle like fury.