'What others?'

'Landowners like the Count who returned from exile, people who in the past year or so have fallen out of favour with Bonaparte or the local préfet or even a local chief of police. Priests who have spoken out too boldly. People to whom some of those in authority owe money...'

'Why the Château at Brest - to be near a convenient ship?'

Gilbert nodded. 'They will be transported to Cayenne as soon as a ship (a frigate, the cavalry captain said) can be prepared.'

'So the Count had how long - a year? - back in his home...'

'Eleven months, sir. Now, concerning you. The officer knew you had been staying here but Edouard was naturally a great supporter of the Republic and told the officer that you had received a warning yesterday evening and fled, leaving your trunks behind. This was confirmed by the Count, who was still in the room.

'The Count pretended anger - he said you were under the protection of passeports issued by Bonaparte. The cavalry officer just laughed and produced a handful of papers and read them to the Count - I think because he had some idea that the authorities could blame him for your escape.

'Anyway, the first was a letter from the préfet at Rennes addressed to you by name, milord, telling you of a decree dated a few days ago. It enclosed a copy of the decree that made you a prisoner of war, from the second Prairial in the eleventh year of the Republic, which is a few days ago. The decree was signed by the First Consul, and with Bonaparte's signature was that of M. Marot, the Secretary of State.'

'And her ladyship?'

'No mention of wives, milord. Edouard had the impression that the letter was simply a copy of one being sent to all foreign males. He thought that women and children were not affected.'

Ramage looked squarely at the little man. 'What it means now, Gilbert, is that you and Edouard and the rest of the staff are harbouring enemies of the Republic. You could be guillotined. We must go.'

'I assure you Edouard and I are true patriots, milord; we are not harbouring enemies of the state because this house has already been searched carefully by a company of cavalry which had ridden specially from Rennes.'

Ramage held the man's shoulders. 'Gilbert, thank you. But there is too much risk for you.'

'Sir, please stay. The Count would wish it. England gave me a home, as well as the Count, when we were refugees. And there is no risk now for you or us: the house has been searched. And we are already making inquiries about their intentions for the Count and to see if it is possible to hire a fishing boat to get you to England, or even the Channel Islands.'

'Who is making inquiries?' Ramage asked.

"The second cook and her husband, Louis, a gardener, always take a cabriolet, how do you call it -?'

'A gig.'

'- ah yes, a gig. Well, they go into Brest each week to buy fish and other things. The gendarmes at the Landerneau Gate - that's where everyone has to show papers when entering or leaving Brest -'

Ramage was curious and interrupted: 'Is it possible to get into Brest without papers? No one asked us.'

'But of course, milord. You rode across the fields without knowing. Otherwise you simply leave the road half a mile before the town gates and go round them through the fields. There are gates on the road but no wall round the town. The risk now the war has begun is being stopped later somewhere in the town by a patrol of gendarmes.'

Ramage nodded and glanced at Sarah, a glance noticed, by Gilbert. 'Ah yes, when it comes to getting you to the fishing boat, you dress as a French married couple going to market - or travelling to visit relatives or looking for work. You will have documents -'

'What documents?' Ramage asked.

'Genuine documents, I assure you, milord. You will have French names of course, and your French accent, of Paris, will need modifying. Thickening, to that of the Roussillon or Languedoc, for instance: you know both areas. We need to choose somewhere specific, a long distance from here - where if the préfet in Brest wants to check, he knows it would take three or four weeks, so he is unlikely to bother. But if it was Paris' - he shrugged his shoulders expressively - 'a courier leaves for there daily.'

'You have been giving it all careful thought!'

'When we returned from England,' the valet admitted, 'I did not share the Count's optimism for the future in France. The Count thought we would have many years of peace. For myself, I thought the Treaty was like two prize fighters having a rest during a bout. I advised the Count not to leave England, but alas, the nostalgia for this château overcame the love he had developed for the house in Kent. Now I fear the Count will travel the road to Cayenne...'

'And you - what will happen to you?' Sarah asked anxiously.

'I took the precaution of supplying myself with papers - and of course, like Edouard and Louis and the rest of the Count's staff, it is well known how deeply we hate the aristos!We work for them in order to eat!'

'And your stay in England - how will you explain that?'

'Oh yes, the Count threatened me so I had to go with him. The gendarmes are always most sympathetic with those who have suffered at the hands of the aristos... They even congratulated me on persuading the Count to return to France at the peace...I think even then the préfet knew the Count (with many scores of other exiles) was walking into Bonaparte's trap.'

Gilbert then struck the palms of his hands together like a pastry-cook dusting off flour. 'We must cheer ourselves. I think it is safe for you to return to your suite and I will serve you breakfast. It will be safer if you eat there - not all my plans have worked.'

Intrigued, Ramage asked: 'What went wrong?'

'The cavalry suddenly arriving. I had paid out a good deal of money to make sure we had enough warning to allow the Count to escape.'

'I should think the préfet received the orders about the Count from Paris during the night,' Ramage said. 'As soon as he read them he sent out the cavalry and at the same time hoped to pick us up.'

Gilbert nodded slowly, considering the idea and finally agreed. 'That would account for it. I do not like to think that I was cheated - or betrayed.'

The meals, Sarah commented, were superbly cooked, and although the choice was limited, the food was plentiful; their suite was large and airy, even though the furniture was sparse. The view from the windows was spectacular, if you liked the Breton landscape, harsh to English eyes accustomed to rich greens and unused to the great jagged boulders scattered here and there like distorted hay ricks. Her only complaint was that they had not been able to leave the rooms for three days.

Ramage pointed out that their plight hardly compared with that of Jean-Jacques: he would be in a cell at the Château in Brest, a huge citadel both had agreed was cold and grim even when they saw it on a sunny afternoon only a few days ago (although it seemed a lifetime). Whereas Jean-Jacques at best could look forward to confinement for years in one of the unhealthiest places in the Tropics, the worst that could happen to them would be for Nicholas to be taken off to Valenciennes, where prisoners of war were held, while Sarah had to live with a French family for the rest of the war.

Sarah had declared that she would stay as near as possible to wherever her husband was incarcerated - they had all agreed that he would not give his parole. The unspoken agreement was that if they were discovered and captured, Nicholas would try to escape to England while Sarah would, if necessary, be left behind. She refused to consider that the French might punish her as a reprisal for her husband's escape.