He addressed an envelope for the letter to Mr. George Peabody at the Crown Inn, Dover. Then he put it in another envelope addressed to Citizen Cammaerts, Patron de VAuberge du Bon Voyage. He had to wait until after supper before he could slip away, but down by the docks he soon found a man who could direct him to the inn. It was one of the secret post-offices that had been established in all the principal ports along the French coast to enable English agents to have their reports smuggled over. Roger had never previously made use of this one but it was a part of his business to memorize them all.
As he was not yet in uniform he could go into the inn without fear of arousing unwelcome comment in connection with his clandestine business. Even so, he took advantage of the prevailing fashion to arrange his voluminous cravat so that it should hide the lower part of his face.
He would, if necessary, have left his letter with a potman but, having called for a drink, he felt very much happier on learning that the little, wizened-faced man behind the bar, with gold rings in his ears, was Citizen Cammaerts. After knocking back the tot of brandy he had ordered, he slipped the letter and a louis across to the landlord, who took them both, ripped open the outer envelope, glanced at the inner one and slipped it into his pocket with a nod but no word.
Roger had put a special mark on the envelope, so that when Mr. Peabody received it he would pay the bearer five guineas then without delay forward the letter to an address in Queen Anne's Gate. Mr. Pitt and Lord Grenville at the Foreign Office would receive copies of it very shortly afterwards and, from the paragraph about the jelly-fish, they would have no difficulty in deducing that a French invasion could be expected on a foggy night before the spring was out.
When Roger got back to the Commandant's house Bourrienne asked him where he had been, but he shrugged the question off by replying that he had drunk so much wine at supper that he had felt he must get a breath of fresh air. Then, very pleased at having got this urgent information safely away, he went up to bed.
Next day they drove further up the coast and crossed to the island of Walcheren. After Bonaparte had assessed its possibilities as an invasion base, they went on to Antwerp. There they had another quick midday meal, after which Bonaparte questioned a number of people and inspected the port. By nightfall they arrived in Brussels and early on the 16th set out on the long drive to Paris.
It had been a whirlwind tour. Bonaparte had left Paris on the 10th, so in seven days he had covered well over five hundred miles. He alone among the party appeared unaffected by the strain. Even the tough little Lannes was showing it, but when they drew up in the newly named Rue de la Victoire the pale-faced, frail-looking Corsican told the unfortunate Bourrienne to come into the house with him so that they could look through such correspondence as had arrived in his absence.
Roger took his leave and jogged on wearily to La Belle £toile, almost falling from his saddle outside the inn. By then it was past midnight so the place was in darkness, but persistent knocking brought the landlord, Maitre Blanchard, down to the door. He was swathed in a woollen robe and still wearing his cotton nightcap.
The worthy Norman believed Roger to be a Frenchman, but had known him to be an aristocrat and secretly a Royalist during those desperate times when he had passed himself off as a fervid revolutionary. But he had always kept Roger's secret, proved the .staunchest of friends and still had up in his attic a big trunk of clothes, varying from the tattered garments of a sans-culotte to the elegant attire of a young exquisite, that Roger had used as occasion required during the long periods in which he had made La Belle fitoile his home.
On recognizing Roger, Maitre Blanchard welcomed him with delight, roused a serving boy from a cubby-hole under the stairs to take his horse, and led him in. Seeing his exhausted state, he tactfully refrained from asking what had become of him during the past two years, and took him up to a comfortable bedroom. There he pressed Roger to let him bring him up a grog or hot posset, but Roger declared that he would sleep like a log without any aid to somnolence.
Flopping into bed he was almost instantly asleep, and he slept on well into the following morning. When he did become fully awake he rang for the chambermaid and told her to bring him a substantial breakfast. Hungry as a hunter, he ate it in bed, then proceeded slowly to wash and dress himself in becoming clothes from the chest that had been brought down from the attic. While doing so he groaned more than once, for he was terribly stiff from his long ride on the previous day and the insides of his thighs were almost raw.
It was midday before he made his way downstairs and encountered the landlord coming out of the coffee room. With a smiling bow to him, Maitre Blanchard addressed him in a low voice as ' Monsieur le Chevalier' then said, ' Knowing one of your favourite dishes to be duck, my wife is about to braise one in the Normandy fashion for dinner. We should be greatly honoured if you would join us.'
Roger had enjoyed many a good meal in the Blanchards' private parlour, and he assented with the utmost readiness. He whiled away an hour scanning the latest issues of the Moniteur, then was summoned and went through to greet his motherly hostess.
Over the meal, which they washed down with two bottles of excellent Chambolle Musigny, Roger told them of the voyage he had made to India, of his return via Egypt and Venice and of his having been given a post on General Bonaparte's staff. To this simple couple India seemed as distant as another planet and they listened with rapt attention while he was describing its strangeness, colour and marvels. Then, when Maitre Blanchard produced a dust-encrusted bottle of his native Calvados, Roger—knowing that his host followed all political developments with shrewd interest and that his clients kept him well informed about what was going on—said:
' But enough of myself. Tell me now how you have fared, and the latest gossip in this great city of Paris.'
' Monsieur, we cannot complain,' replied Blanchard. 1 In fact by last September things had become quite like old times and-'
' Old times! ' interrupted his wife. ' How can you say that when those who rule us flaunt their godlessness and lechery so shamelessly? ' Turning to Roger, she went on indignantly, 'Paris has become another Babylon, monsieur. The Christian faith is mocked at, the men have made money their god, and the women of all classes sell themselves; the richer ones for jewels, and the poorer ones for a good dinner or a few ribbons.'
' That was already the case when I was last here,' Roger commented. ' While one does not approve such a state of things, it is, to some extent, understandable. Having lived in fear for so long, when any display of rich living could lead to the guillotine and all forms of enjoyment were frowned on by the Committee of Public Safety, it is hardly surprising that when the Terror ended a wave of hysterical relief should sweep people into giving free rein to their baser passions.'
' You misunderstood me, my love,' added her husband. ' By '' old times " I meant that there was much more money about, men were beginning to address one another as "Monsieur" again, instead of " Citoyen and many people who had been in prison or had fled from the Terror were once more freely walking the streets of Paris.'
'The 18th Fructidor altered all that,' Madame Blanchard put in quickly.