"Well, it must be something nasty for a naval man to admit that much. What is the order? I don't suppose you came over here without being ready to show it to me."
The lieutenant plunged his hand into the inside pocket of his naval jacket and then brought it out empty.
"Understand, Peyrol," he said earnestly, "this is not a service of fighting. Good men are plentiful for that. The object is to play the enemy a trick."
"Trick?" said Peyrol in a judicial tone, "that's all right. I have seen in the Indian Seas Monsieur Surcouf play tricks on the English . . . seen them with my own eyes, deceptions, disguises, and such-like. . . . That's quite sound in war."
"Certainly. The order for this one comes from the First Consul himself, for it is no small matter. It's to deceive the English Admiral."
"What – that Nelson? Ah! but he is a cunning one."
After expressing that opinion the old rover pulled out a red bandana handkerchief and after rubbing his face with it repeated his opinion deliberately: "Celui-là est un malin."
This time the lieutenant really brought out a paper from his pocket and saying, "I have copied the order for you to see," handed it to the rover, who took it from him with a doubtful air.
Lieutenant Réal watched old Peyrol handling it at arm's length, then with his arm bent trying to adjust the distance to his eyesight, and wondered whether he had copied it in a hand big enough to be read easily by the gunner Peyrol. The order ran like this: "You will make up a packet of dispatches and pretended private letters as if from officers, containing a clear statement besides hints calculated to convince the enemy that the destination of the fleet now fitting in Toulon is for Egypt and generally for the East. That packet you will send by sea in some small craft to Naples, taking care that the vessel shall fall into the enemy's hands." The Préfet Maritime had called Réal, had shown him the paragraph of the letter from Paris, had turned the page over and laid his finger on the signature, "Bonaparte." Then after giving him a meaning glance, the admiral locked up the paper in a drawer and put the key in his pocket. Lieutenant Réal had written the passage down from memory directly the notion of consulting Peyrol had occurred to him.
The rover, screwing his eyes and pursing his lips, had come to the end of it. The lieutenant extended his hand negligently and took the paper away: "Well, what do you think?" he asked. "You understand that there can be no question of any ship of war being sacrificed to that dodge. What do you think of it?"