The Cornish Heiress (27 page)

“I do not see what harm it could do for Monsieur Saintaire to
see the yards and docks, Father,” Désirée urged softly, “particularly when his
patriotic act can leave you in no doubt as to his loyalty.”

“No, of course it would do no harm, but I do not have time to
escort him, and—”

“Oh, I would not expect that!” Philip exclaimed, horrified. “But
is it too much to ask—or is such a thing impossible—for a pass?”

“That would not do,” Désirée said. “The yards and docks are
very dangerous places. You say you are ignorant of ships and shipbuilding. You
might be hurt yourself or cause an accident wandering about. Father, if it were
agreeable to you, I might serve as guide to Monsieur Saintaire. I could ask Jeannine
to go with us so that all would be proper.”

To Monsieur Fresnoy it seemed perfectly natural that every
man in the world should find ships and everything about ships the most
interesting subject that existed. It also was pleasing to him that so well-bred
a young man, who did not ogle his daughter, should entertain her for a few
days. Monsieur Fresnoy was aware that Désirée lived too quiet a life, but he
could not bear to think of her associating with the young officers of the army
and navy who were here today. They might well be here long enough to win his
daughter’s affections, but they might also be killed in the invasion. And there
was no one else. No shipbuilder in Boulogne could spare time or timber for
merchant vessels, so those were all dropping anchor in other ports. Thus there
were no young men but those Monsieur Fresnoy considered unsuitable for one
reason or another.

Philip would be a safe escort Monsieur Fresnoy thought. No
girl as sensible as Désirée could fall in love in a few days. Even if that were
possible, the young man had the accent and manner of a gentleman. He was in a
reserved occupation; he was clever and ambitious. They could write letters to
each other, if they wished. Perhaps if interest grew between them, Monsieur
Fresnoy would permit Philip to visit again—in a year or two. Then, perhaps in a
few years more… Yes, if Désirée fixed her attention on a most suitable young
man who was employed in Paris, she would be less likely to be interested in
someone closer, more dangerous to her father’s peace.

In no time at all Monsieur Fresnoy permitted himself to be
talked around. It was safer for Philip to go with Désirée and her friend.
Désirée was well known in the shipyards. In the past he had spent much time
there, and she had often brought him something to eat if he was too busy to
come home. Even now he was in the shipyards quite often to smooth things over
between Parisian officials and the north-coast shipbuilders or to settle
disputes between the workmen of disparate origins who had different ways of
doing things. The former sea captain was accustomed to many accents, many
ports, many different ways of living.

The very last thing Philip wanted was a guide, particularly
a feminine one who would doubtless be bored and want to leave almost as soon as
they arrived. He had been hoping to get lost in places his pass did not entitle
him to go to, counting on his uniform, which might not be familiar to workmen
who had no reason to examine uniforms closely, to protect him from questions.
He murmured that Mademoiselle Désirée was “too good”, she must not trouble to
go into a noisy, dirty place most unsuitable to her delicate gender, that he
would be very careful and neither cause nor fall into an accident.

The faint, polite protests that were all Philip dared allow
himself did him not the slightest good. Désirée would be delighted; her father
was “very happy to accommodate him”. Philip could only thank both with as much
enthusiasm as he could summon up and hope he would be able to keep the pass and
get in another time. Perhaps, he told himself as he walked back to his lodging
that night, it would be all for the best. At least he would be recognized as a
guest of the harbor master. But while the surface of his mind remained occupied
with the question of his mission, a vague puzzlement stirred below. Every
outward aspect of voice and manner marked Mademoiselle Désirée a proper and
modest girl. Still…

The pleasant surprises started as soon as Philip arrived at
the harbor master’s home at the appointed time the next morning. Désirée and
her friend were all ready to go, a pleasant change from the few times Philip
had escorted English girls, who seemed to think that an hour’s wait would
endear them to their escorts. Then, there did not seem to be any secrets to be
kept about the yards or docks at all. Désirée was obviously well known and was
greeted with respect. No place was forbidden. Philip’s questions were all
answered with the greatest good humor and apparent frankness.

At first Philip was very careful, despite his fear that
Désirée would wish to leave too soon. He asked every question with respect to
merchant vessels, where and how cargo would be carried, where and how cargo
could be hidden. His “ignorance” was instructed. These were not cargo vessels.
They were meant to carry guns, men, and horses—for the invasion. Philip waxed
ecstatic with patriotism.

“I am very happy to hear such sentiments,” a pleasant tenor
voice behind him remarked.

Philip turned, smiling, to repeat his enthusiasms in new
words, but the smile froze on his face when he saw the two girls curtsying
deeply. It was Bonaparte himself, at the head of a modest group of master
craftsmen and naval officers. Philip bowed also, holding his breath. From the
back many uniforms were indistinguishable from one another, but the First
Consul could not fail to recognize the service to which Philip “belonged” as soon
as he saw the front. And, indeed, the next words out of his mouth were, “You
are of the
Douane
. What are you doing here?”

“I am in the office of clerks,” Philip got out, “and all day
I read and write of ships of which I know nothing. I was curious, my lord.”

Was there a flicker of satisfaction in Bonaparte’s eyes at
the use of the honorific reserved for the very highest nobility? Philip could
not swear to it because the penetrating blue-gray eyes did not linger on him
but passed to the girls, who promptly curtsied again. Bonaparte opened his
mouth to say something, then recognition came.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Désirée!” A swift glance around. “Is your
good father here?”

“No, sir. He could not take time from his work to escort
Monsieur Saintaire, yet he felt Monsieur Saintaire deserved to see what he
wished because of his service to the state, so he asked me to show him what I
could.”

“Yes?” Bonaparte encouraged. “Service to the state? How has
Monsieur Saintaire served the state?”

Given tacit permission, Désirée launched into a description
of Philip’s discovery of the “smuggled” goods. She glossed lightly over the
time of his discovery, saying he had been returning from a visit, which Philip
assumed was what her father had told her. Decent girls were supposed to be
ignorant of the existence of whorehouses. Also, she somehow implied that it was
the Director of Customs who had introduced Philip to her father and recommended
that the young man’s curiosity be satisfied. Philip was puzzled by this, since
Désirée knew the true facts but he guessed it was because she did not wish her
father should bear the blame of permitting an unauthorized person into the
facility. Whatever her reason Philip was delighted, since it would have been
embarrassing, to have to explain why he had gone to the harbor master rather
than the director to report. Moreover, the way the story was coming out, it
sounded as if he had been recognized and accredited by the director of his own
service.

While Désirée spoke, Philip had ample opportunity to examine
the bogeyman all England feared. He did not look much like a bogeyman.
Bonaparte was about average height, or a little below for a Frenchman—which
made him a good six inches shorter than Philip’s own six feet—and he was rather
handsome. The blue-gray eyes were large and of a very intent expression under a
lofty forehead with fine, down-slanting eyebrows. His skin was very clear and
very pale, particularly white on his hands, which Philip felt were too small
and too graceful for a man. There was, however, nothing unmasculine about nose
and chin, the former long but straight and handsome, the latter strong and
determined. His smile, directed now at Désirée, was peculiarly charming, the
lips very mobile and expressive.

“So,” Bonaparte said, turning his eyes on Philip again, “a
most honest and patriotic young man.”

“It is difficult to be otherwise when you are an example to
us all, my lord,” Philip replied, taking a chance and laying flattery on with a
trowel.

He was rewarded with a brilliant smile, which confirmed what
that first flicker of satisfaction at being called my lord had implied—that
Bonaparte was a man who enjoyed flattery. Further confirmation came in a kind
but condescending dismissal of the ladies to a “more appropriate occupation”,
coupled with a gracious invitation to Philip to accompany him on his tour of
the shipyards. Philip choked, nearly strangling on laughter. Surely this must
be the first time in history that the leader of a nation invited an enemy spy
to accompany him on a tour of an installation preparing for invasion of the
spy’s country. The mild strangulation did Philip no harm, Bonaparte took it to
be an expression of unbelieving awe, and Philip encouraged this useful delusion
for all he was worth as soon as he caught his breath by stammering thanks and
gratitude.

Several times more that morning Philip was forced to cover
hidden emotions with gasps of spurious admiration—but the emotions were no
longer mirth. Nor was the admiration all assumed, for it was impossible to be
in Bonaparte’s company without admiring the man. His manner to the workmen was
perfect. There could be no doubt that his presence and comments—he had a
surprising grasp of anything that was told him—did inspire them to the greatest
effort of which they were capable. It was remarkable, too, that a man of such
vanity should be able to listen to and accept statements from the experts who
accompanied him that obviously went against his desires.

Naturally, Philip had made himself inconspicuous among the
First Consul’s entourage. The invitation did not imply that Bonaparte intended
to act as a personal guide—for which Philip was truly grateful. He preferred
that the penetrating gaze of the First Consul be turned on men and things other
than himself. His speech, he knew, was perfect—and Bonaparte, whose mother
tongue was Italian rather than French, probably would not have noticed any
irregularity in that anyway. His manner was good enough in general—in England
he had always been accused of being French in his ways. Still, there was
something in those blue-gray eyes that made Philip too aware that he was
not
French. Such a feeling was dangerous; it could cause awkwardnesses that would
not appear if it did not exist.

However, as an anonymous member of the group that trailed
Bonaparte, Philip had the enormous advantage of having his questions answered
without needing to ask them. Bonaparte was as interested as Philip himself in
how long it took to build a ship, in whether it would be possible to speed the
process by adding men to the labor force or by any other expedient. Nor could
any spy have been more interested in how many ships had already been completed
and of what types they were.

All this was the most wonderful good fortune, and the
answers Philip had to his unasked questions were in some measure consoling. It
was immediately clear that no invasion would be launched that year. Not nearly
enough ships were ready to carry an adequate force across the Channel.
Privately, Philip did not think the fleet could be ready during the early part
of the next year either. That was not his responsibility, however. If he
brought home the information he had, those more expert than he could calculate
a probable date far better than he could. In fact Decrès’s deputy was assuring
the First Consul that the ships could be ready by the summer of 1804, and the
master shipbuilder, although he did not dare contradict the deputy of the
Minister of Marine, was biting his lips and looking very nervous. Philip
assumed from this that the deputy’s prediction was oversanguine and that it
might not be until 1805 that the fleet would be ready. Nonetheless Philip felt
cold with fear. It seemed to him that however long the event was postponed, it
would
come. There was iron-hard determination in Bonaparte’s face, and when he spoke
of the need to conquer and for all time control “perfidious Albion”, his voice
rose and thinned into a cry of fanaticism. It must be war to the death. Either
England or France must go down to utter defeat. Philip realized it would not be
enough to prevent or defeat an invasion, to win some battles, and to make a
peace. Bonaparte would only begin all over again. To achieve a lasting peace
Bonaparte would have to be destroyed—killed or removed from power in such a way
as to be sure he could never grasp it again.

Philip went back to his inn, after Bonaparte had finished
his tour of the Boulogne docks and shipyards, in no mood for polite
conversation. His mission was complete. He had the information for which he had
come—straight from the horse’s mouth as it was said—and it was not very
pleasant. In the privacy of his room he wrote down in brief and cryptic form
everything pertinent that he had heard and seen. He did not think the letters,
which were abbreviations of English names of ship types, and numbers would be
meaningful to anyone who found them, and to be sure he interspersed totally,
irrelevant symbols and numbers between the real information, marking the
irrelevant materials with checks, dashes, and little stars.

He put the paper into his pocketbook quite openly, hoping
that no one would ask what it meant or think it important. A little thought
produced an explanation if anyone did ask. The symbols could be initials and
the numerals prospective contributions to a worthy cause. Deciding exactly what
the worthy cause should be was the next step, but Philip never got that far. A
scratch at the door heralded a servant with a delicate missive. Philip
restrained his groan and his expletives until the servant was gone, and then
expressed himself freely for a minute as he perused the invitation to dinner
penned by Mademoiselle Désirée.

His first impulse was to refuse, but he did not dare. He had
said he would be in Boulogne for a week. If he disappeared suddenly, that would
be suspicious. In general, perhaps not, but to leave abruptly on the very day
he had toured the docks and shipyard was stupid. Nor could he say he had been
recalled to his office. Such an order would naturally come through the
director’s office. Perhaps a sick relative? No, Philip told himself. He was
merely indulging himself because he didn’t wish to sing praises of Bonaparte,
as he knew he must to remain in character.

There was nothing he could do but accept. He would have had
to make some kind of farewell visit anyway, so the note he wrote and sent with
a servant from the inn was graceful. The combined efforts of his father,
grandfather, and grandmother-by-marriage had finally drilled into him the need
for graceful forms to avoid hurting and offending those who did not know him
well. It was fortunate, however, that his host and hostess could not see his
sullen expression as he wrote. By the time he set out for Monsieur Fresnoy’s
house, the expression was gone. Philip knew that the invitation was tendered
out of pure kindness for a young man alone in a strange place. He could not be
ungrateful, no matter how inconvenient the kindness was in reality.

Philip spent the first few minutes of his walk to Monsieur
Fresnoy’s house thinking up praises for Bonaparte that would not stick in his
throat, but his mind was soon distracted. He had the strangest impression that
someone was watching him, and the sensation did not pass as he completed the
length of the street—which it would have done had someone been peering out of a
window. Philip stopped abruptly and turned, at the same time clapping a hand to
the pocket in which men carried their purses. Pickpockets were rife and clever,
and such a gesture would imply no personal uneasiness, only that Philip thought
someone had tried to rob him.

The street was quite full at this time, of course. All sorts
of people were there, well-dressed ladies and gentlemen either going out or
home to dinner, officers and men of the army and navy on and off duty, laborers
and sailors going about their business or seeking amusement, and the usual
number of ill-clad loiterers. As swift as Philip’s movement had been, he did
not surprise anyone with what might be considered an unhealthy interest in him.
Several people had noticed his action and also glanced around, but there was no
one close enough to him and no one who started to run on whom to pin suspicion.
Philip shrugged and continued on his way, his hand ostentatiously on his
pocket.

As he walked Philip wondered whether he had somehow given
himself away and was being watched by the spy-catchers of the Ministry of
Police. In the next moment he told himself that was ridiculous. Why should such
men bother watching him? Surely it would be safer to arrest him and try to beat
the truth out of him. Perhaps no one was watching him and following him at all.
It could be his own awareness of his mission, that gave him the feeling he was
suspected. He could think of only one reason for not being taken into custody
at once. It was possible that they wished to discover whether he had any
confederates.

If so, of course they would be sadly disappointed—or would
they? Would they accuse Monsieur Fresnoy and Désirée because they had helped
him quite innocently? That was an ugly thought. Philip remembered his father’s
tales of Paris in the Terror. Innocence was no armor then, for there was no
justice to protect the innocent. But Philip’s memories of Roger’s and Leonie’s
vivid descriptions of the haunted, fearful people checked his flight of fancy
in that direction. Bonaparte might be an enemy of England, might even be a
fanatic who wished to rule the world, but he was no madman like Robespierre,
who thought he could build a pure and secure nation on a foundation of death
and terror surrounded by a sea of blood.

The morning Philip had spent in the First Consul’s company
was proof enough that he did not inspire nor wish to inspire, a generalized and
unreasoning terror. Philip did not doubt that the man could be terrible enough
when he wished, but that would be to a particular person or group for a
particular reason—and the reason would be made clear to all. No, what Bonaparte
had offered France was exactly the opposite of what Robespierre had inflicted
on the country. Frenchmen did not walk in fear. Possibly personal enemies of
the First consul would not receive justice, but the ordinary man, the lower
levels of officials, felt secure and worked hard out of patriotism and
enthusiasm.

Once again Philip wondered whether he was imagining the
sensation of being followed. When he came to the quieter street on which the
harbor master lived, he quickened his pace, like a man who was eager to arrive
at his destination. He had hoped that he would be able to identify who was
following him, but when he stopped suddenly again and looked back, this time
without pretense, there was no one among the few passersby that he could
associate with his uneasy feeling.

Naturally enough Philip said nothing about being watched or
followed to Monsieur Fresnoy or his daughter, and the experience benefitted him
in that it filled his mind to the exclusion of any animosity he might feel
toward Bonaparte on his country’s behalf. The things he had planned to say
flowed easily enough from his tongue, and after that he found to his relief
that his host was very willing to move to other subjects. Before long the
beauties of the Pas de Calais countryside had been introduced into the
conversation by Désirée. It was an unexceptional subject, one where total
ignorance on Philip’s part was perfectly reasonable.

There was no need for Philip to do any more than listen and
agree that “it must be lovely”. He could safely voice a formal and rather
insincere regret that the brief time remaining to him before he must return to
his duties would not permit him to see more.

“But why not?” Désirée asked. “Did you not tell Papa that
you would remain in Boulogne a week? The town itself is not so pleasant now
that it is overrun with soldiers and sailors. You would do better to go out
into the countryside.”

Because he was preoccupied with hiding his irritation at
Désirée’s too-accurate memory—Philip had hoped to be able sometime that evening
to say his farewells and announce he was leaving—he fell right into the neat
little trap she had laid, although at the time he did not know it was a trap.

“It is not very interesting to go sightseeing by oneself,”
he remarked with pretended regret. “And it is rather cold to ride about on
horseback for pleasure.”

“That is true,” Monsieur Fresnoy replied. “It is necessary
to share such pleasures and, of course, November is not the time of year in
which the country looks its best.”

“No, Papa, but for some things it really is better when the
leaves are gone from the trees. The views from the hills are seen much more
clearly. Indeed, in summer it is often impossible to see anything because of
the trees.”

“That, too, is true, my love,” Monsieur Fresnoy said
indulgently, smiling at his daughter. “Why do you not take Monsieur Saintaire
for a drive in the carriage to your favorite spot in the hills?”

“What a good idea, Father,” Désirée said with innocent
enthusiasm. “May I take Jeannine along also? We could then go to her aunt’s
house near Ambleteuse. And the moon will be full. You would not object if we
drove back after dinner, would you? You will not be lonely dining by yourself?”

“Not at all, my love. In fact I will not
be
dining by
myself. Monsieur Champagny has asked me several times to join him, but I put
him off because it is not a proper house for you to go to—his sons so coarse
and wild and no other woman. I am sure I can arrange something. By all means,
go to Madame Miallis if you will not cause her any inconvenience.”

At the beginning of this conversation Philip had opened his
mouth several times to protest, but there was really no opportunity and, on
second thought, he was very glad neither father nor daughter had noticed. After
all, what, could he say to excuse his refusal? And, in fact, it was far better
for him to go. What could be more innocent than an excursion into the
countryside with two young girls? No one in his right mind could consider them
conspirators, and it was ridiculous that a spy or saboteur or whatever else he
was suspected of should waste his time in such a frivolous manner. Certainly it
was a more sensible thing to do than to leave Boulogne abruptly.

Thus Philip accepted with becoming gratitude. Actually his
pleasure was not all assumed. He had found Désirée and Jeannine good, if
somewhat silly, company on the way to the shipyards. The rest of the evening
passed pleasantly. Philip spoke of his work in Paris and Monsieur Fresnoy of
his. Désirée played and sang to them. At ten Philip rose and said his adieux.
Monsieur Fresnoy, however, said he would send a servant with him to the main
thoroughfare. With all the soldiers and sailors in town there had been
robberies, especially in the quiet, richer residential sections. Philip
accepted with alacrity. The last thing he wanted was to kill or injure someone
in self-defense and come under the close scrutiny of the police.

The servant left him at the corner of the boulevard, where
there was little chance of any attack so early. Although not so full of people
as when he had gone to the harbor master’s house, there were a sufficient
number to warn off thieves, and the moon was bright. As he walked along Philip
wondered whether a full day and evening of Désirée and Jeannine would be
endurable. They were rather silly, but one could never tell. Of course, Meg had
never been silly—at least, not silly in a boring sense, although she could act
silly enough when she wanted to make him laugh.

The thought of his Cornish beauty wakened a desire to see
her and was so compelling that Philip forgot completely about whether or not he
was being followed. Thoughts of Meg also aroused other desires. Philip had been
celibate far longer than was usual for him, not so much out of fidelity to
Meg—naturally he would not consider a brief connection with a prostitute as
being unfaithful—as from lack of opportunity. He had been too busy, too intent
on his purpose. Now he thought about seeking out a whore, but he did not know
Boulogne well enough to find a house that kept women of the better sort and he
had no intention of exposing himself to the danger of trying the dirty and
disease-ridden trulls who roamed the streets.

As he entered the inn Philip wondered whether he could ask
the landlord about where to find a suitable companion. Often innkeepers had
girls on call for their guests. However, Philip had deliberately chosen a very
respectable establishment, and he was aware that Bonaparte, although not
exactly perfect himself, frowned on the immorality of others. It would not be
wise to take the chance of bringing himself to the notice of the landlord for
such a thing. Since he had hesitated a trifle, he ordered a bottle of wine and
when it had been carried to his room, he filled a glass and sank into a chair
by the fireplace.

Deliberately fixing his mind on trifles, Philip pulled off
his boots and sighed. To someone accustomed to having his boots cut and fit
exactly to his feet with the care and passion Cellini must have put into his
pure gold salters and cups, the items he now wore were a sore trial. They were
not too small or tight, but they caught his toes and heels in unaccustomed
places. To Philip’s mind they had the even greater disadvantage that they
fitted his calves far too tightly to hold either the long barrel of a pistol or
a knife. He could wear the knife in an arm sheath, but the pistols had to go
into his pockets, which made for a slow draw.

Philip sipped his wine and looked into the fire, trying to
think of a logical excuse for leaving Boulogne before the week was out without
raising suspicions in anyone. But the dark red glow of the embers where the
fire was cooling put him in mind of Meg’s hair, and the ache in his loins when
he thought of her made it hard to think of anything at all, much less specious
excuses that would convince the cordial Monsieur Fresnoy. Cordial. Philip fixed
on the word. Was Monsieur Fresnoy too cordial? Was it his men who were
following… Nonsense! Philip had been going to Fresnoy’s house. Only a lunatic
has a man followed to his own home. And Pierre said that Monsieur Fresnoy was
honest.

Then suddenly Philip remembered what else Pierre had
said—that Monsieur Fresnoy might want a temporary amusement for Désirée. That
fitted the harbor master’s cordiality, and Philip remembered something else—the
flickering hot glances cast at him by the modest maiden herself the first
evening he had been at Fresnoy’s house. He had not caught her at it, and he
could not remember anything like that tonight—or did be? Had some of Désirée’s
glances while she was playing and singing been a little more—more interested
than they should have been on so brief an acquaintance? It had been she who
suggested guiding him on the tour of the shipyard. But it had been Monsieur
Fresnoy who suggested the sightseeing in the country.