With every word the General uttered Roger's heart sank further into his boots. Going pale with rage, he burst out:
'General, I am confident that the First Consul never . . .'
'Silence!' snapped Davoust. 'And if I do not have a good report of you, Lieutenant, you will have cause to rue it. You may go.'
Roger had seen summary discipline exercised in the French Army too often to become defiant. Almost choking with fury, he saluted, turned sharply on his heel and went.
An adjutant took charge of him. Half an hour later the Headquarters tailor had changed his Colonel's rank badges for those of a Lieutenant and he had been deprived of his servant, who was put on general fatigues. He was then conducted across the town to a big building that had formerly been a school. There he was handed over to a short, gimlet-eyed Major of Infantry, named Gaudin, who was the Chief Instructor of the Course.
Gaudin asked him a few questions about himself. Feeling it to be pointless and even dangerous to disclose the reason for his having been sent to Bruges, Roger said only that he had served on the Staff in Egypt and more recently with the Paris Headquarters of the Army of the Coast.
Under the Major's black, upturned moustache his mouth took on a sneer, 'I see. Then you have put a foot wrong somewhere and been sent here to be disciplined. As we poor fellows have to fight the wars, most of the time half-starved, while you Staff people loll about at Headquarters stuffing yourselves with the fat of the land, it will give me special pleasure to have you on my Course. Go through that door on your left and report to Captain Adott, the instructor in charge of B Company. I can trust him to put you through the hoop.'
Captain Adott proved to be a huge Dragoon with a manner and vocabulary which made it obvious that he had been an N.C.O. in the old Republican Army. He, too, asked a few questions, then clearly thought it a grand joke to have anyone like Roger in his Company.
The classrooms in the building had been converted into dormitories and the unhappy Roger got his first glimpse of what was meant by 'Endurance Course' when he saw that the close-ranged beds consisted of three planks apiece with no bedding and only a single blanket.
Soon after he had been allotted one, his new companions swarmed into the room. A few of them showed a vague interest in him as a newcomer; but the rest were too tired to do anything but lie at full length on their planks, and he was in no mood to talk. Half an hour later a bugle sounded and, pulling themselves together, they trooped down a corridor to the Company dining hall. Supper consisted of Army biscuits and an ill-cooked stew of vegetables.
When Roger commented sourly on this sparse fare, the young man next to him replied, 'It is as much as one can expect to get while living off the land during a campaign, and I don't suppose we'll do any better when we land in England.'
He passed a hideous night, turning restlessly on his plank bed, with only his uniform for a pillow. Had Napoleon been at hand Roger would cheerfully have killed him for having played him this scurvy trick. For a while he contemplated creeping out, finding a horse and making his escape; but the thought of Pauline restrained him. Napoleon had as good as promised her to him so, for her sake, he must somehow put up with this martyrdom.
A bugle call roused them at five o'clock. Hastily pulling on their outer garments, they ran out into the big yard and lined up for their first parade of the day. There followed half an hour's violent exercise during which they were required to throw themselves down, heave themselves up, then jump high in the air. Next came early morning stables and, while Roger was an excellent horseman, he loathed having to groom a horse himself. Before breakfast, another meal of biscuits and vegetable stew, they were given half an hour to shave in a crowded washroom and clean themselves up. There was then an inspection by the gimlet-eyed Major and Roger was awarded seven days fatigues for no apparent reason.
Instead of the technical instruction about supplying and administering large bodies of troops, that Roger had expected to receive, he found himself for fifteen hours a day being drilled on a barrack square, ordered off on twenty-fivc-mile route marches without water, and sent for cross-country runs from which the last ten men in were penalized by having to get up at four in the morning and clean out the latrines. In the riding school they had to trot without stirrups and jump hurdles bareback, while cynical N.C.O.s flicked their mounts with long whips until they became almost unmanageable. There were sessions of bayonet fighting, wrestling and swimming in the noisome canals until half of them were sick from the stench of the sewage with which houses on the banks fouled the water. Grimly, Roger stuck it, now falling asleep exhausted each night on his plank bed. And in one way he earned the respect of his fellow sufferers. He was a superb swordsman and soon found that in the fencing school no one could touch him. So, after he had been in Bruges a week he challenged the giant Captain Adott to a bout. The tough ex-sergeant was a fine blade and his strength made him a formidable opponent, but Roger got the better of him and he handsomely admitted it. After that, life for Roger became a little easier; but there was no escaping the daily drills, the constant exertions and the monotonous, unsatisfying food.
His rancour against Napoleon gradually subsided, for he had come to the conclusion that the First Consul's idea had been that, before he commanded troops, he should learn to appreciate the hardships they suffered during an arduous campaign. And the thought of his beautiful Pauline waiting for him in Paris enabled him to endure these weeks of physical fatigue and acute discomfort.
The officers on the course came and went, usually rejoining their units after a period of a month. None of those engaged on it had a moment to read a journal, so the only news they received from the outside world was from newcomers. It was early in September that one of these remarked one evening to Roger, 'That Prince Borghese is a lucky fellow. Just think what a night one could have going to bed with Pauline Bonaparte.'
Roger stiffened as though a ramrod had been thrust down his gullet and demanded, 'What the devil do you mean?'
'Why, don't you know?' replied his companion with a smile. 'Although she is only ten months a widow, she married this Italian Prince towards the end of August. On the 23rd. I think.'
Utterly staggered by this casual statement, Roger remained absolutely still for a moment. He felt sure that it could not possibly be true; but he had to make certain. Without a word he stood up, went along to the Instructors' Mess and asked to be allowed to look through some of the journals. By that time he had come to be regarded as quite a good fellow who had been kicked off the Staff only because he had antagonized some General; so permission was readily accorded him.
Shuffling swiftly through the numbers of Le Moniteur for the last week in August, he soon came upon an announcement that he could still hardly believe but had half feared to find. There it was in black and white; 'Marriage of the First Consul's sister, Madame Leclerc, to the millionaire Italian Prince, Camillo Borghese.'
Almost physically sick at the thought of the way in which Pauline had betrayed him after all he had endured for her sake, he left the Mess and stood for a few minutes outside in the passage. Rage welled up in him, taking the place of disgust, then sudden determination.