'But you, what will you do?'

Nicolas Mallerousse roared with laughter and, still puffing at his long clay pipe, went over to a chest from which he took some garments similar to those he had worn in the tavern on the Barbican.

'I? I shall go back to Plymouth and become Black Fish again, the rogue who'd sell his soul for a sovereign—'

Then, it had been the sailor's turn to make his confession. He admitted that he was an agent of that Fouché of whom he had spoken. His base was at Plymouth where he organized the escape of prisoners from the hulks.

'I was at Portsmouth first of all, and with my help more than one brave lad escaped from that evil hulk the Crown. But then an informer was getting on my track so I moved to Plymouth. I can work as well there.'

He did not mention that he also gathered what information he could about English plans and troop movements but Marianne could easily guess.

'Are you a spy, Nicolas?' she asked in a rather shocked voice.

Nicolas pulled a face that made him look uglier than ever but then he laughed.

'It's an ugly word for what are often very brave men. Let us say – a soldier in the shadows, shall we?'

Marianne had spent several quiet days in the little house at Recoubrance. She had viewed the town in the company of Madame Le Guilvinec and the surrounding countryside with Nicolas, discovered that a French port was very much the same as an English one, that the banks of the Penfeld could be very gentle and the wild sea intimately lovely. She had even seen some convicts with their shaven heads and red woollen garments but, her curiosity once satisfied, had preferred to devote her attention to the shops in the rue de Siam where her companion, acting on Black Fish's orders, had seen to it that she was generously provided with new clothes.

On the evening before he was due to return to England, Nicolas had told his temporary charge that a place was reserved for her on the next morning's diligence. He had given her a purse containing some gold pieces and a handful of small change. When Marianne, very red in the face, tried to refuse, he told her:

'It's a loan, no more. You can return it when you are lady-in-waiting to your cousin the Empress.'

'Will you come and see me?'

'Of course I will. I come to Paris now and then to meet Citizen Fouché – the Duke of Otranto I mean.'

'Very well! I accept – but don't forget your promise.'

This bargain sealed, Nicolas had handed Marianne a neatly folded letter addressed to His Grace the Duke of Otranto, Minister of Police, at his house in the quai Malaquis telling her to take great care of it since, after reading the letter, the Minister would certainly give her all the help in his power.

'And his power is very great. The Ci – the Duke that is, is certainly the ablest and most well informed person in the whole world!'

In addition, and just in case she should lose her letter, he had made her learn, by heart some words which she was to be sure to repeat to the minister.

Thus equipped, Marianne bade an affectionate farewell to her friend at the stage coach office in Brest. She was dressed in the height of provincial fashion in a driving coat of mulberry coloured cloth with three capes worn over a dress of the same colour with long, puffed sleeves and a high neck trimmed with a narrow frill of white lace, and kid half-boots laced with velvet ribbon. The whole was set off by a bonnet in the same mulberry shade of velvet lined inside the brim with ruched white silk and trimmed with a saucy curled white feather. It was a cold, bright day and she felt her heart beat high, although it was a real grief to part from the kind man who had been so good to her. Acting on a sudden impulse, before she climbed into the heavy vehicle, she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him.

'Don't worry,' Nicolas muttered in a gruff voice that did not hide his feelings, 'I'll try and find out how your affairs stand, over there. Perhaps they'll call off the search before very long and one day, maybe, you'll be able to go home.'

But as the Brest Mail rattled on into the heart of the French countryside, Marianne felt her desire to go back to England gradually slipping away from her. Everything she saw was new and interesting. She stared at even the smallest things with wide wondering eyes, serenely unconscious of the surprise and admiration which her own beauty was rousing in her fellow travellers. She was much too busy looking out at this strange land of France which struck a deep and almost unconscious chord in her own heart. It was as though the severed roots were beginning to put out new growth.

All the same, when she had climbed out of the mail coach on that rainy evening, Marianne felt suddenly very much alone and friendless. In the twelve days she had spent travelling in the great coach, she had grown accustomed to it. Now, this huge, unknown city, the bustle all around her, people greeting the relatives and friends who had come to meet them, the unfamiliar faces everywhere all made her the more conscious of her own isolation. The fatigue of the journey added to this feeling of depression and, to make matters worse, she had stepped straight out of the coach into a puddle of water. Unpleasantly cold, wet feet did nothing to make her feel that life was more worth living.

There were a number of porters moving about the vast inn yard and some passengers had already obtained one to carry their bags. The helpful notary, seeing Marianne drifting rather aimlessly, clutching her carpet bag, made a sign to one of them and took him over to her.

'Give your bag to this lad, mademoiselle, and he will carry it to wherever you are going. Where are you bound?'

'I know no one in Paris but I have been recommended to the inn called the Compas d'Or in the rue Ontorgueil. The landlord is a friend of my – uncle.' She hesitated a little over the last word, uncertain of the best title to confer on Black Fish. He had recommended the inn as one where his friend Bobois would take good care of her until she could obtain an interview with the Minister of Police.

In the course of their journey, the notary had done his best to discover why so beautiful and reserved a young lady might be travelling alone to Paris but Marianne, with a skill beyond her years, had managed to avoid giving more than vague, generalized answers. She had lost her parents, she said, and was travelling to the city to find the only family she had left. Nicolas had booked her seat in the name of Mademoiselle Mallerousse and had obtained papers for her in that name, leaving it to Fouché to restore her to her real identity as he might see fit. The laws regarding émigrées were severe and it was necessary to find out whether Ellis Selton's niece fell under their prescriptions.

The worthy lawyer agreed that the Compas d'Or was a sound, respectable place. He himself was bound for the Cheval Vert in the rue Geoffory Lasnier, famous as the inn where Danton had put up on his arrival from Arcis-sur-Aube. He was expected there, otherwise he would have given himself the honour of escorting Mademoiselle Mallerousse to the Compas d'Or but she might have perfect confidence in the porter who was one he had employed himself many times. He was even conscientious enough to suggest to her how much she ought to pay the man, then, raising his beaver hat, he bowed, expressed the hope that they would meet again before long and disappeared into the crowd. Marianne prepared to follow her guide. 'Is it far to the inn?'

'Ten minutes on foot, mam'zelle! Just down the rue Riquetonne and we'll be there in no time. Just wait while I put up the heavy brolly for you. In this rain, you'll be sopping wet before we're there.'

Fitting the action to the words, the porter, who was a stocky, red haired lad with a cheerful countenance and a snub nose, opened an enormous umbrella above his client's head and led her out into the street.

There were few people about, the darkness and the bad weather combining to keep the people of Paris within doors. The big oil lamps slung on wires across the street threw little light and although she was bursting with curiosity, Marianne was obliged to give most of her attention to watching where she put her feet. There were no pavements and the big round cobblestones did not make for easy walking. Without her companion to point out the bad places and show her the planks set like small bridges across the swollen gutters, she would have ricked her ankle time and time again. All the same, some of the shop windows looked enticing and among the passers by were a number of well dressed women, prosperous looking men and lively children.

The porter gave a warning shout and, just in time, he dragged her back against the wall of a building, to avoid a glittering officer on horseback who galloped blindly past and almost rode them down. Marianne had a brief glimpse of a fine black horse, a green coat with white trimmings, white buckskin breeches in long, gleaming boots, a dazzling brass helmet adorned with leopard skin and a long black plume, above a moustached face, red and gold epaulettes and white gloves, a vision at once dashing and colourful.

'Who's that?' she asked, shaken but admiring.

'One of the Empress's dragoons. They're always in a hurry.' Suddenly noticing her dazzled expression he added: 'Handsome fellows, eh? But they're not the best! Anyone can see you're just up from the country, but wait 'till you see a chasseur of the Guard, or a mameluke, or a Polish lancer or a hussar! Not to mention the marshals with all their gold braid and medals! Oh, the little Corporal knows how to dress his men all right!'