'May I – may I ask what has become of Jean Le Dru?'

'Gone!' Surcouf said laconically.

'What? You have dismissed him? But – what for?'

'Anyone capable of handing over a woman, worse a young girl, into the clutches of the police cannot continue to serve under me. War is a matter for men, Mademoiselle Marianne. It is fought by men, with men's weapons. Laying information is not one of them. There are some things for which even love is no excuse.'

The word sent the colour flooding into Marianne's cheeks.

'Love? Do you believe then—'

'That he loves you? Stands out a mile. He would not seem to hate you so much if he were not mad for you. But, as I say, that does not excuse him in my eyes. Have some of this lettuce, it's delicious.'

Marianne reflected inwardly as she helped herself to salad that this dismissal was unlikely to make Jean Le Dru any more her friend. He must certainly resent it bitterly and his love, if love there was, was almost bound to be transformed into an implacable hatred. She knew, better than anyone, that he could be a dangerous enemy. The prospect of ever coming face to face with him again was uninviting.

The Corsair had stopped eating and was watching her.

'What are you thinking?' he asked.

'About that boy still. What will become of him? You are his god—'

'There are other ships and other men even in St Malo! He can go to my brother Nicolas. Besides, if you think Le Dru worships me, you're mistaken. He has a god, certainly, but it is not myself. It is the Emperor. There is no lack of regiments to serve him in, under his very eyes even.'

The subject was closed, not to be reopened. Marianne turned the conversation instead to draw out her host to talk about himself. He both attracted and intrigued her. However, it was not easy. Surcouf was a modest man but Marianne had realized that mention of the sea was enough to make him open out. The sea was Surcouf's very life, the air he breathed and the blood in his veins. The reason that he had not set out again immediately on his return from Madagascar was that, instead of commanding only his own vessel, he was now fitting out a regular fleet for the service of France and her master on all the seas of the world. At the age of thirty-six, Surcouf was a rich man, powerful in his own land, a baron of the empire and the father of a growing family.

It seemed odd to Marianne to hear him abusing those 'damned English'. He certainly had no love for them but then, he too had tried the dreadful hulks and, from a child, the mere sight of the Union Jack floating at a masthead had been enough to send him into a fury. But it did not make him blind.

'Nelson was a fine fellow,' he declared, 'a first rate sailor. But had I commanded the French Fleet instead of that half-wit Villeneuve, we shouldn't have been beaten at Trafalgar and perhaps that one-eyed genius might still be living. However, for his death alone I cannot regard the battle as a total loss. That Englishman was worth a fleet in himself.'

The cup of coffee which concluded the meal finally reconciled Marianne to the idea that life was, after all, worth living. She loved coffee although, until now, she had not drunk very much of it. Aunt Ellis had drunk only tea but the only neighbour with whom she was on any terms, an elderly eccentric called Sir David Trent, indulged in large quantities of coffee. At his house, Marianne had first made the acquaintance of this fragrant beverage, and she adored it. Now, she drained her cup with such evident enjoyment that she was immediately pressed to take another. While she drank it, as slowly as the first, Surcouf watched her closely.

'What will you do now?'

'I do not know. Monsieur Fouché has told me he will make arrangements.'

'The best solution, certainly, will be for you to join the former Empress at Malmaison.'

'"Former"? Has the divorce gone through?'

'Josephine left the Tuileries five days ago, never to return. She is now at her house at Malmaison with those members of her court who have remained faithful to her. Her daughter, the Queen of Holland, scarcely leaves her side, but I fear you may find yourself in a sad place. From what I hear, they seem to weep a good deal.'

The look on the Corsair's face was enough to demonstrate to his companion his horror of tears.

'I do not fear that,' Marianne said quietly 'I have little enough for gaiety myself, you see.'

'Fouché will decide. I think he will do what is best for you. I would offer you the hospitality of my house near St Malo where you would be treated with the consideration that is your due but your beauty is such that I fear—'

He became suddenly very red and busied himself with pouring out more coffee leaving the sentence unfinished Marianne understood. The baron's wife might not be overjoyed at her husband's inviting a young girl of her age into his house. But she did not take offence. Rather she was amused by her companion's embarassment. It was funny to see this man of action caught between his desire to be of use to her and fear of being scolded by his wife. But she hastened to reassure him.

'Thank you. It is good of you to wish to offer me a roof, but I should, in any case, prefer to remain in Paris where I still have some family.'

He sighed, clearly showing his disappointment at being unable to take her with him, and could not help adding softly: 'A pity. It would have made me very happy—'

Then, as though ashamed of what he had said, he began shouting that the coffee was cold, making the honest Bobois pay for the relief of his feelings.

When the time came to go to the Ministry of Police, Surcouf called her a cab. Once inside, Marianne saw to her surprise that her travelling bag had been placed there also. Deciding that Fouché must have given instructions to the landlord, she refrained from asking any further questions.

The cab moved off slowly on account of the almost permanent traffic block in the rue Montorgueil. It was used by the market gardeners returning from les Halles with their empty carts and stacks of empty baskets on their way home to Saint Denis or Argenteil. The street was clamorous with men shouting and calling to one another to have a drink before setting out. Outside the Rocher de Cancale, were only two or three carriages. The restaurant's busiest time was in the evening. But in the midst of all this activity, Marianne, looking eagerly out of the window, caught sight of one face, a figure quickly lost in the crowd, and drew back instinctively into her corner. Why should Jean Le Dru be lurking there? What was he doing in this street at all? Was he hoping for an opportunity to restore himself to Surcouf's good graces – or was his object Marianne herself? The brooding anger in the eyes that met hers told her all she needed to know. Jean Le Dru was her bitter enemy. She turned and looked the other way, trying to throw off the disagreeable feeling this gave her. Surcouf was occupied with watching her and noticed nothing.

Police headquarters in the quai Malaquais was a handsome seventeenth century mansion whose lawful owners, the Juigné family, had been dispossesed at the time of the Revolution. Since then it had endured many vicissitudes. The Commissions for arms and ammunition and that for education, housed successively within its walls, had done nothing to improve it. Since 1796, Citizen Joseph Fouché, later Monsieur Fouché and later still his grace the Duke of Otranto, had made it the focus of his home and offices, but the minister was a man of simple tastes, at least so far as his residence in Paris was concerned. He preferred to keep his splendours for his magnificent country house at Ferrières. Consequently, the Hôtel de Juigné had not had so much as a wash from him and the patina of age lay heavily on its venerable walls.

If the domestic apartment ruled over by Bonne-Jeanne, the plain and uncompromising Madame Fouché, and the chief reception rooms still retained something of their splendour, this was a tribute to the quality of their original decoration and the housewifely virtues of the mistress of the establishment, since Fouché saw no reason to spend good money on his ministry.

This ministry was a world in itself. The maze of offices, crammed with files and card indexes presided over by a race of overworked clerks, extended at the back from the rue des Augustins[5] to the rue des Saints Pères, joined to the ministry itself by covered wooden passages. The place was filled with a strange and motley assortment of people, and with a mixture of smells that ran the gamut from the expensive perfume of the woman of fashion to the more plebeian effluvia of informers and police spies of all kinds.

When Marianne, still dazed from her short drive across Paris, found herself plunged into this unlikely setting, she was glad of Surcouf's strong arm and reassuringly broad shoulders. With him beside her, she felt better able to confront the shifty glances and startling appearance of some of those who came and went round the many corners of the Hôtel de Juigné. They had, in fact, been obliged to enter the building by a side entrance in the rue des Pères. Marianne's cab was obliged to take another way round because the quai Malaquais was hopelessly jammed by a crowd of vehicles of all descriptions struggling in and out of the forecourt of a large private house directly opposite the ministry.

'Big party at Princess d'Aremberg's!' the coachman growled. 'Have to go round the other way—'

Because of this, Marianne was able to get a general impression of the minister's lair, and it was by no means an agreeable one. There was a dusty, hole and corner smell about it, and she was glad when they came to the ministerial antechamber which was presided over by an usher in plain livery. This lofty personage regarded Marianne with an impassive eye.