“No need,” de Beaumont said calmly. “You see, I intend to place myself in the hands of the authorities.”
For once Jacaud’s iron composure was shattered. “Give yourself up? You’d face certain execution.”
“That would be for the court to decide.” De Beaumont shook his head. “I’ve been wrong, Jacaud. We all have. I thought I wanted what was best for France. I see now that what I really wanted was what was best for me. Further bloodshed and violence would accomplish nothing. The events of the past few days have taught me that.”
“And what about the women and the old man? What do we do with them?”
“We can release them before we leave. They’ll be picked up before long.”
“And Guyon?”
“Him we will also leave.”
Rage erupted from Jacaud’s mouth in a growl of anger. “I’ll see that one on his back if it’s the last thing I do on top of earth. God in heaven, I could have left him to drown.”
“Sergeant-Major Jacaud!” De Beaumont’s voice was like cold steel. “I have given you certain orders. You will see that they are carried out. Understand?”
For a dangerous moment the fire glimmered in Jacaud’s eyes, and then, quite suddenly, he – subsided. “I beg the Colonel’s pardon.”
“Accepted. Release Captain Guyon and General Grant and bring them up here. We leave in half an hour.”
Jacaud opened the door and went out. De Beaumont sighed, and said almost to himself: “Twenty-three years of blood and war. Too much for any man.”
It was Anne who answered him, her face very pale. “Before God, Colonel de Beaumont, I pity you.”
He took her hand and kissed it gently, then crossed to the door to the turret room and opened it. “Perhaps you would wait in here?”
They walked past him. He closed the door and went to the fireplace. He looked up at the standard for a long moment, then sat down at his writing desk and picked up a pen.
Marcel sat at the table in his tiny room, a bottle of cognac in front of him. He was reading an old magazine, turning the pages slowly, his mind elsewhere. They should have been out of this place the moment Jacaud had returned with the news of the loss ofL’Alouette, so much was obvious. He wondered what de Beaumont had wanted, and raised his glass to his lips. Behind him the door crashed open and Jacaud entered.
His face was white, the skin drawn tightly over the promi-nent cheekbones, and there was a strange, smoky look in his eyes that made Marcel’s flesh crawl.
“What is it? What happened up there?”
Jacaud grabbed the glass, filled it with cognac and swal-lowed it down. “He wants us to take him to Jersey. From there he intends to fly to Paris to hand himself over to the authorities.”
“He must be mad.” Marcel’s face turned a sickly yellow colour. “Are you going to let him?”
“Am I hell. If they get him they get all of us. It would only be a matter of time.”
“What about the prisoners?”
“He’s going to release them.”
Marcel jumped up in alarm. “We’ve got to get out of here. This whole thing’s going sour.”
“We’re getting out of here all right, but on our own,” Jacaud said. “Just you and me. Everyone else can go to the devil. But first I’ve got to settle with de Beaumont. He knows too much for his own good.”
“And Guyon?”
“I’ll have to forgo that pleasure. You take care of him and the old man. I’ll see you on the jetty in fifteen minutes.”
He went out and Marcel raised the bottle of cognac to his lips, swallowed deeply and tossed it into a corner.
It was quiet in the corridor and he moved quickly along to the end and paused outside a stout wooden door. He took a revolver from his pocket and checked it quickly. There were four rounds in the cylinder and he unbolted the door, kicked it open and moved inside.
Raoul Guyon and General Grant rose to meet him. Marcel closed the door behind him and moved forward.