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be sent to Cayenne, and that’s one of the unhealthiest places in the world. But death there is not certain. Not as certain as being strapped down to the guillotine here.”
    â€œAnd what about us? I don’t want to sound selfish but we are foreigners in the middle of the enemy camp!” Her smile was wry; he was pleased to see that his new wife neither showed fear nor attempted to blame him for the fact they were caught in a trap.
    â€œWhen Gilbert comes back we’ll hear if the French authorities know we’re here and if they’re looking for us. I don’t think Jean-Jacques registered us anywhere or reported to the authorities that we were staying with him. I think he should have done—at the
préfet
’s office, perhaps—but he wouldn’t bother because he thought it was not the
préfet
’s business whom he chose to entertain.”
    â€œThat attitude is all right in England, but I can’t see Bonaparte and his merry men agreeing.”
    â€œNo, but although the French know the names of every foreigner who has entered the country, unless they have their present addresses, it doesn’t help. Remember,” he said bitterly, “if the French are arresting all the visitors, it means they are breaking their word.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œWell, everyone visiting France has to get a
passeport
from the French. That’s a guarantee, a document permitting the foreigner to pass through the ports of France and travel about the country. Now, having granted these
passeports,
it seems Bonaparte is breaking his word.”
    Sarah nodded but said with casual sincerity: “Yes, that’s true, but anyone—and that includes us—who trusts a man like Bonaparte or the government of France cannot complain if he is cheated. ‘Honour’ is a word that the French deleted from their vocabulary when they executed the king. Any nation that cheerfully executes a whole class of its people for just being born into that class is wicked and mentally sick. A Frenchman could be born an aristocrat but be poorer than the local gravedigger, yet the aristocrat was dragged off to the guillotine, and the gravedigger went along to cheer the executioner.”
    â€œWe shouldn’t have come here on our honeymoon,” Ramage said wryly.
    â€œWhere else? Prussia isn’t very appealing. The Netherlands and Italy—Bonaparte will be arresting all foreigners there. Spain—who knows. Anyway, we are really learning something about the French.”
    She sat down on one of the packing cases. “What happens if the French soldiers find our trunks in the suite?”
    â€œWell, they won’t find us. Don’t forget they came at dawn, so they’ll assume we’ve escaped.”
    â€œThat seems too good to be true,” she warned.
    â€œNo, it’s obvious when you think about it.”
    â€œWhere do we go now? This storeroom is rather bare!”
    â€œBack to our suite eventually, because it’ll probably be the safest hiding place in France.”
    â€œOur suite? But …”
    â€œâ€˜It’s been searched by the cavalry, so the
rosbif
and his wife
can’t
be there,’” he said, imitating the precise speech of an officer reporting to a senior. “They’ll be searching everywhere else for miles around.”
    There was a faint tapping at the door and Ramage opened it. Gilbert slid in, a reassuring smile on his face. He bowed to Sarah.
    â€œYou must find that box uncomfortable, milady.” As soon as Sarah reassured him, he turned to Ramage and took a deep breath.
    â€œEdouard used his ears and eyes carefully, milord, and he acted as a simpleton so that he could ask silly questions—and sprinkled some shrewd questions among them.
    â€œAnyway, it means this. As far as the Count is concerned, because France is now at war with England again and the Count spent all those years in England, he