So, he knew it all. In spite of herself, Marianne felt a red flush of shame sweep over her face. She understood that for these silent men whose eyes were fixed on her like so many daggers, that was her greatest crime, that she had seemed to come to terms with the regime of the hated Bonaparte. It troubled her like an unfair stigma. Could she make them see that they were wrong, that appearances alone were against her?

'Monsieur,' she said in a low voice, 'that I came to this country, that I have seemed to accept its laws and conditions, was because I had no choice. I did so to save my life. I can explain in detail, if you are willing to listen. But which of you has never tried to save his life at the cost of a lie? Which of you has never taken refuge in a borrowed name and character in such times as these?'

'We have lied,' acknowledged one of the judges who was still masked, 'and we have worn borrowed characters, but we have never betrayed our own people or compounded with the enemy.'

'I have never betrayed my own people!' Marianne cried passionately. 'It is my own people who have betrayed me. I was alone and helpless and I asked for help and assistance from one close to King Louis, and he rejected me without mercy, abandoning me knowingly to the worst of fates! But I have never compounded with Bonaparte's régime! I was brought up in England, brought up to hate him and I recognize his power no more than you. Whatever he made me suffer, I never betrayed the man I knew as Morvan. As for the tyrant who reigns here, I swear on my mother's grave, that I have always execrated—'

Before she could finish, one of the riders, the one who had been addressed as the Baron de Saint-Hubert, had rounded on her, his arm raised and his eyes alight with such a murderous fury that Marianne recoiled instinctively with a cry of terror.

'Renegade! Perjurer! Blasphemer! You should be burned alive for what you have just dared to say, for daring to soil your mother's memory with a lie! You serve to die in torment! Miserable creature! You dare to say you hate Napoleon?'

Saint-Hubert's hand fell heavily on Marianne's arm. He flung her violently to her knees and held her there.

'You dare to say? Dare you say it again?'

Marianne was white with shock but even now she refused to give way to her fear.

'Yes—' she whispered. 'I do dare!'

Without releasing his hold on her arm, Saint-Hubert dealt her a ringing blow to the head which sent her sprawling on the ground.

'You filthy little vagabond! So frightened for your skin you'll swear to anything! But your lies shall not save you, do you hear? So you hate Napoleon, do you? Did you hate him so much, tonight, at Butard?'

'At – Butard?' Marianne echoed dazedly.

'Yes, at Butard! At the delightful nest he keeps for his amours and where you spent the night! Or perhaps you were not in his bed? It was not he who made love to you, eh?'

Marianne's head reeled. Everything seemed suddenly to have gone mad, the world was falling to pieces about her ears. In her horror, she began to scream:

'No! No! It's not true! You are lying! The man I saw is called Charles Denis! An ordinary bourgeois.'

'Will you not cease your lies? And to think that I admired your courage, that I was ready to speak for you, perhaps to help you!'

Mad with rage, the baron was about to strike again but Bruslart sprang forward suddenly and tore the terrified girl from his friend's grip and thrust her behind his own broad back.

'Enough, Baron de Saint-Hubert!' he said grimly. 'I am no murderer, or persecutor of women! The girl is too frightened to know what she is saying.'

'Say rather she's making a mockery of us all, chevalier! Leave her to me, I'll make her talk. Creatures of her kind deserve no pity.'

'And I say enough! There is something here I do not understand—'

He turned to where Marianne lay half unconscious, face downwards on the ground. He helped her up and made her sit on a low stool. Marianne's head was ringing like a cathedral bell. She struggled unsuccessfully to collect her thoughts but decided that she must be going mad. What did these men mean? Of course, that was it. They were mad – or else she was the victim of some terrible misunderstanding. Charles! – Charles! Of God! How could they confuse him with the adventurer who held all Europe under his heel? He was so kind and gentle! They did not know him. They could not know him. He was just an ordinary man – God, how her head hurt!

Marianne became aware of the rim of a glass pressed to her lips.

'Drink this,' the chevalier ordered. 'Then we will try and get to the bottom of this.'

'Charles!' she moaned. 'Charles Denis. You cannot know—'

'Drink, I tell you. You are green.'

She drank. The wine was strong and heady. Its warmth ran quickly through her chilled body, reviving a little spark of life. Pushing the glass away with her hand, she stared at the chevalier with such a lost expression that he nodded with a trace of pity.

'So young and yet so depraved?' he murmured under his breath.

'There is no age in women's depravity!' There was no pity in Morvan's voice.

'I have asked you to let me sort this out, Monsieur the Wrecker,' Bruslart retorted, without looking round. 'Stand back a little, gentlemen, you are upsetting her.'

The Baron de Saint-Hubert gave a sardonic crack of laughter.

'One of these days, chevalier, your incorrigible weakness for women will make you do something stupid. I am not sure that day has not come.'

'If it has come, then I am old enough to see that without your help. For the present, I should like to question this one without interruptions from you.'

'Very well, question her! But we are here. We are listening.'

The Riders of the Shadows withdrew to the far end of the chamber, a black wall against the grey wall of the crypt. Marianne and Bruslart were left alone by the table.

'Last night,' he began patiently, 'you were taken to the pavilion of Butard at Le Celle St Cloud?'

'That was the name I was told, certainly.'

'Who took you there?'

'The Prince of Benevento. He told me the house belonged to a friend of his, a bourgeois named Monsieur Charles Denis, a man who had recently suffered a cruel bereavement. My singing was to be a comfort to him.'

'And you were not surprised that such a man as Talleyrand should take the trouble to escort you, in person, to the house of a mere bourgeois?'

'Yes. But the prince told me that they were friends of long standing. I thought – I thought the prince might have known him perhaps in the Revolution, or that the name might be a cloak for some foreign conspirator—'

'We will come to that later. Who met you at Butard? A servant?'

'No. I think he was a friend of M. Denis. He was called Duroc. And I saw a manservant as well.'

'A manservant by the name of Constant, was it?'

'Yes – yes, I think so!'

The chevalier's deep voice became suddenly very gentle. He bent over Marianne and looked hard into her eyes.

'This M. Denis – you love him?'

'Yes! Yes, I love him. I think I loved him from the very first. I saw him and then—'

'And then,' Bruslart finished for her quietly, 'you found yourself in his arms. He attracted you, hypnotised you, bewitched you – they say he can talk love like no one else and write it better still.'

Marianne stared at him wide eyed.

'But then – you know him? He is a man who leads a secret life, is he not, a conspirator, like yourself? I knew he was in danger!'

For the first time, Bruslart smiled briefly.

'Yes, I know him. As for secrecy, it may well be, for it is true that he is often in danger. Shall I show you your Monsieur Denis?'

'Yes – yes, of course. Is he here?' she cried, carried away by a sudden wonderful hope.

'He is everywhere,' the chevalier said with a shrug. 'Here, look here.'

Taking a gold coin from his pocket he placed it in Marianne's hand. She stared at it in bewilderment.

'The face,' Bruslart persisted. 'Don't you recognize it?'

Marianne looked. A wave of colour mounted her face. She stood up, mechanically, staring with eyes grown suddenly huge at the fine profile stamped on the gold, a profile she recognized only too well.

'Charles!' she stammered helplessly.

'No,' the chevalier corrected her grimly. 'Napoleon! It was to him that old fox Talleyrand delivered you tonight, you little fool.'

The gold coin slipped from Marianne's fingers and rolled away over the ancient flagstones. She felt the floor heave under her feet. The walls were performing a wild dance around her. Marianne gave one cry and fell headlong, like a felled sapling.

When she came to herself again, she was lying on some straw in a dark place lit by a flickering brazier. A strange individual holding a candle was bending over her sympathetically. With his pointed face, receding hair, large ears and bristling whiskers, he looked like a mouse wearing a goatee. His black eyes, which were round and very bright, strengthened this resemblance. When he saw Marianne open her eyes, he gave a broad smile which split his face in two.

'Ah, that's right! We're coming round! Are we feeling better?'

Marianne made an effort to sit up and managed to prop herself on one elbow, though not without a groan. Her head ached horribly and her body felt bruised, as though she had been beaten.

'I – yes, thank you. I do feel a little better. But what happened to me? Where are we?'