Rain beat upon the rattling window and beyond the courtyard the naval captain watched the tricolour stiff with wind, bright against the grey scud sweeping over Paris. In his mind's eye he conjured the effect of the gale upon the green waters of the Channel and the dismal, rain-sodden shore of the English coast beyond.

Behind him the two secretaries bent over their desks. The rustle of papers was reverently hushed. An air of expectancy filled the room, emphasised by the open door. Presently rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor and the secretaries bent with more diligence over their work. The naval officer half turned from the window, then resumed his survey of the sky.

The footsteps sounded louder and into the room swept a short, thin, pale young man whose long hair fell over the high collar of his over-large general's coat. He was accompanied by an hussar, whose elaborate pelisse dangled negligently from his left shoulder.

'Ah, Bourienne!' said the general abruptly in a voice that reflected the same energy as the restless pacing he had fallen into. 'Have you the dispatches for Generals Dommartin and Cafarelli, eh? Good, good.' He took the papers and glanced at them, nodding with satisfaction. 'You see Androche,' he remarked to the hussar, 'it goes well, very well and the project of England is dead.' He turned towards the window. 'Whom have we here, Bourienne?'

'This is Capitaine de Frégate Santhonax, General Bonaparte.'