Roger gave a cynical laugh, 'Then, since it pays so well, if there is another war I'll play the part of a traitor.'
'Nay, Charles Fox is no traitor. At least, not intentionally so; although it must be admitted that he caused grievous harm by encouraging discontent among the masses in this country while we were at war, and often seriously hampered my measures for the prosecution of it.'
Two days later Roger said good-bye to Droopy Ned and the members of his family who lived at Amesbury House; then he went down to Lymington to see his father, whom he found sadly crippled by the gout.
Having thought matters over he had decided not to return to Paris. It was nine months since he had left there and during that time the whole European scene had changed. Now that the war was over, even if Bonaparte was prepared to forgive his long, unexplained absence, it seemed that the First Consul would have little use for him; and as Paris was full of English people he might run into several whom he knew. To reply in broken English to one or two who might claim his acquaintance that they had mistaken him for his English cousin would cause him no worry; but should he have to tell the same story to a number of them, and they compared notes, that could result in the resemblance arousing a most undesirable interest in his past activities.
In consequence, after staying for three nights at Walhampton House he boarded a brig in which he had arranged a passage from Southampton to Bordeaux. On landing in France he hired a coach and made a leisurely progress through Agen, Toulouse, Carcassone, Nimes, Aries and Aix-en-Provcnce, spending a night or two in each of these cities to enjoy the remains of their ancient or mediaeval glories, before arriving at St. Maxime on November 14th.
The morning after his arrival he took a walk to his vineyard and enquired of a labourer working in the neighbouring one after the health of Madame Meuralt. With a grin the man replied, 'She lives here no longer, Monsieur, although she still comes to stay at times. In the summer she married a Monsieur Tarbout who, I'm told, has a prosperous mercer's business in Nice.'
Roger was glad for her, but could not make up his mind whether he was glad or sorry for himself. To have renewed his liaison with pretty, plump, passionate little Jeanne would have given him something to occupy his mind; but he was still so sick at heart about Georgina that he felt no real inclination to philander with any member of her sex.
He had been at his chateau for about ten days and one afternoon returned from a long, solitary walk on the seashore. As he was passing the room he used most frequently, in which he had collected a small library, he happened to glance through one of the tall windows. To his surprise he caught sight of a man sitting at his desk going through his papers. Imagining the intruder to be a thief, he was about to tiptoe round to the hall and collect his pistols. Then the man turned his head slightly, exposing his profile to view. Roger's surprise turned to amazement, then wonder and sudden apprehension. He found himself staring at his old enemy Joseph Fouche, the Minister of Police.
14
Bonaparte becomes Napoleon
Roger and Fouche had buried the hatchet shortly before the coup d'etat of Brumaire, because Fouche had foreseen that Bonaparte would most probably succeed in seizing power and Roger had provided the bridge between them. For many years Fouche, like Talleyrand, had known that 'Monsieur,' 'Chevalier,' 'Citoyen' and now 'le Colonel' Breuc were, in fact, Roger Brook, the son of an English Admiral. But neither had ever caught him out while spying for Mr. Pitt and, since '99, both had accepted it that, as a protegé of Bonaparte's, all his interests lay in regarding France as his adopted country that might hold a fine future for him.
What, then, was Fouche doing here, going through his papers in his absence? Had he, in his amazingly widespread intelligence net, picked up some little happening out of the past that had led him to believe that for all these years Roger had been acting as a British secret agent, and had come to the chateau in the hope of finding corroborative proof?
Swiftly Roger ran through in his mind the papers that were in his desk. Almost at once he was able to reassure himself that there was nothing among them which could be associated with his secret missions. Breathing more easily he walked softly on, entered the house, tiptoed to his little library and quietly opened the door.
At the faint noise it made, Fouche looked up; but he made no effort to conceal what he had been doing. Shuffling the papers before him into a pile, he pushed them away and came to his feet. With a faint smile on his lean, cadaverous face, but without looking directly at Roger, he bowed and said:
'Ah, here you are at last. You have a very pleasant place of retirement here, Monsieur le Colonel.'
Roger returned the bow. ‘I am happy that it meets with your approval, Monsieur le Ministre. May I enquire to what I owe the pleasure of this visit?'
' Tis very simple. It may not be known to you, but before the Revolution my family owned a plantation in San Domingo and ships that plied thence and back to my native town of Nantes. In recent times I have been fortunate enough to make a modest sum out of contracting to supply the requirements of our armies. But now we are at peace, such transactions may no longer prove very lucrative; so I am again interesting myself in shipping and have just spent some days in Marseilles. The port being not far distant from your—er—hideout, it occurred to me that it would be pleasant to renew our acquaintance. That—er—is if you happened to be here and not—er—perhaps away engaged in other activities.'
To Roger the implication was clear. Fouche suspected that his long sojourns on sick leave in the south of France might be, as indeed they often had been, cover for secret trips to England. But he had his answer ready, and said smoothly:
'I am most fortunate in being here to receive you, for had you looked in to see me above ten days ago you would have found me absent—as you have no doubt already informed yourself by enquiries made of my servants or in the village.’
Fouché held up a long, bony hand in protest. lMon cher Colonel, how can you think that I would seek to ferret out particulars of the doings of my friends?'
'Yet I came upon you going through my papers,' Roger replied a trifle tartly.
'Oh, that!' Fouche waved the matter aside then smoothed down his long, grey frock coat. 'Alas, I have never been able to acquire the habit of idleness that our friend Talleyrand is so fortunate in possessing. Your man said you were to be expected back shortly and showed me in here. Such journals as I found on the table were hopelessly out of date, and I had to employ my accursedly active mind in some way, so it occurred to me to look through your desk.'
A cynical little smile twisted Roger's lips, 'I suppose such a manner of passing the time must be second nature to a Police Chief. But I fear you were unfortunate if you hoped to come upon any secrets.'
'No, no. You wrong me. I had no such thought. But I have always been fascinated by the way others live, and how much their households cost them. I did no more than look through your bills.'
Confident that Fouche could have come upon nothing that could injure him, Roger said, 'But I forget myself. You must be in sad need of a glass of wine and I trust you will stay to dinner.'