 CHAPTER 32 Sisters The morning found her fagged out, but more calm. Later on she managed to drink some coffee, and having washed and dressed, she prepared to go out. Sir Andrew appeared in time to ascertain her wishes. I promised Percy to go to the Roux de Charon in the late afternoon, she said. I have some hours to spare, and mean to employ them in trying to find speech with Mademoiselle Lange. Blakeney has told you where she lives? Yes, in the Square du Roux, I know it well. I can be there in half an hour. He, of course, begged to be allowed to accompany her, and a non they were walking together quickly, up toward the Fort Bourg-Sainte-Honoré. The snow had ceased falling, but it was still very cold, but neither Marguerite nor Sir Andrew were conscious of the temperature, or of any outward signs around them. They walked on silently until they reached the torn-down gates of the Square du Roux. There Sir Andrew parted from Marguerite after having appointed to meet her an hour later, at a small eating-house he knew of, where they could have some food together before starting on their long expedition to the Roux de Charon. Five minutes later Marguerite Blakeney was shown in by worthy Madame Belom into the quaint and pretty drawing-room, with its soft-toned hangings and old-world air of faded grace. Mademoiselle Lange was sitting there in a capacious armchair which encircled her delicate figure with its framework of dull, old gold. She was ostensibly reading when Marguerite was announced, for an open book lay on a table beside her. But it seemed to the visitor that may have the young girl's thoughts had played truant from her work, for her pose was listless and apathetic, and there was a look of grave trouble upon the childlike face. She rose when Marguerite entered, obviously puzzled at the unexpected visit, and somewhat awed at the appearance of this beautiful woman with the sad look in her eyes. "'I must crave your pardon, mademoiselle,' said Lady Blakeney, as soon as the door had once more closed on Madame Belom, and she found herself alone with the young girl. "'This visit at such an early hour must seem to you an intrusion. But I am Marguerite Saint-Juste, and—her smile and outstretched hand completed the sentence.' "'Saint-Juste?' exclaimed Jean. "'Yes. Amant's sister.'" A swift blush rushed to the girl's pale cheeks. Her brown eyes expressed unadulterated joy. Marguerite, who was studying her closely, was conscious that her poor, aching heart went out to this exquisite child, the far-off, innocent cause of so much misery. Jean, a little shy, a little confused and nervous in her movements, was pulling a chair close to the fire, begging Marguerite to sit. Her words came out all the while in short, jerky sentences, and from time to time she stole swift, shy glances at Amant's sister. "'You will forgive me, mademoiselle,' said Marguerite, whose simple and calm manner quickly tended to soothe Jean-Lanche's confusion. But I was so anxious about my brother, I do not know where to find him. "'And so you came to me, madame? Was I wrong? Oh, no! But what made you think that—that I would know?' "'I guessed,' said Marguerite, with a smile. "'You had heard about me, then? Oh, yes. Through whom? Did Amant tell you about me?' "'No, alas. I have not seen him this past fortnight, since you, mademoiselle, came into his life. But many of Amant's friends are in Paris just now. One of them knew, and he told me.' The soft blush had now overspread the whole of the girl's face, even down to her graceful neck. She waited to see Marguerite comfortably installed in an arm-chair, and she resumed shyly. "'And it was Amant who told me all about you. He loves you so dearly.' "'Amant and I were very young children when we lost our parents,' said Marguerite softly. "'And we were all in awe to each other, then. And until I married, he was the man I loved best in all the world.' "'He told me you were married—to an Englishman. Yes? He loves England, too. At first he always talked of my going there with him as his wife, and of the happiness we should find there together.' "'Why do you say, at first? He talks less about England now. Perhaps he feels that now you know all about it, and that you understand each other with regard to the future. Perhaps?' Jean sat opposite to Marguerite on a low stool by the fire. Her elbows were resting on her knees, and her face just now was half hidden by the wealth of her brown curls. She looked exquisitely pretty sitting like this, with just the suggestion of sadness in the listless pose. Marguerite had come here to-day, prepared to hate this young girl, who in a few brief days had stolen not only Amant's heart, but his allegiance to his chief and his trust in him. Since last night, when she had seen her brother sneak silently past her like a thief in the night, she had nurtured thoughts of ill will and anger against Jean. But hatred and anger had melted at the sight of this child. Marguerite, with the perfect understanding born of love itself, had soon realized the charm which a woman like Mademoiselle Lange must of necessity exercise over a chivalrous, enthusiastic nature like Amant's. The sense of protection, the strongest, perhaps, that exists in a good man's heart, would draw him irresistibly to this beautiful child, with the great, appealing eyes and the look of pathos that pervaded the entire face. Marguerite, looking in silence on the dainty picture before her, found it in her heart to forgive Amant for disobeying his chief when those eyes beckoned to him in a contrary direction. How could he—how could any chivalrous man endure the thought of this delicate, fresh flower lying crushed and drooping in the hands of monsters who respected neither courage nor purity? And Amant had been more than human, or may have less, if he had indeed consented to leave the fate of the girl whom he had sworn to love and protect in other hands than his own? It seemed almost as if Jean was conscious of the fixity of Marguerite's gaze. For though she did not turn to look at her, the flush gradually deepened in her cheeks. Mademoiselle Lange said Marguerite gently, Do you not feel that you can trust me? She held out her two hands to the girl, and Jean slowly turned to her. The next moment she was kneeling at Marguerite's feet in kissing the beautiful kind hands that had been stretched out to her with such sisterly love. Indeed, indeed I do trust you, she said, and looked with tear-dimmed eyes in the pale face above her. I have longed for someone in whom I could confide. I have been so lonely lately, and Amant—with an impatient little gesture—she brushed away the tears which had gathered in her eyes. What has Amant been doing? asked Marguerite with an encouraging smile. Oh, nothing to grieve me! replied the young girl eagerly, for he is kind and good and chivalrous and noble. Oh, I love him with all my heart! I loved him from the moment that I said eyes on him, and then he came to see me—perhaps you know—and he talked so beautifully about England and so nobly about his leader, the Scarlet Pimperna. Have you heard of him? Yes," said Marguerite, smiling. I have heard of him. It was that day that Citizen Heron came with his soldiers. Oh, you do not know Citizen Heron. He is the most cruel man in France. In Paris he is hated by everyone, and no one is safe from his spies. He came to arrest Amant, but I was able to fool him and to save Amant. And after that, she added with charming naiveteur, I felt as if having saved Amant's life, he belonged to me, and his love for me had made me his. Then I was arrested, she continued after a slight pause, and at the greck election of what she had endured then her fresh voice still trembled with horror. They dragged me to prison, and I spent two days in a dark cell where—she hid her face in her pants, whilst a few sobs shook her whole frame. Then she resumed more calmly. I had seen nothing of Amant. I wondered where he was, and I knew that he would be eating out his heart with anxiety for me. But God was watching over me. At first I was transferred to the temple prison, and there a kind creature, a sort of man-of-all-work in the prison, took compassion on me. I do not know how he contrived it, but one morning very early he brought me some filthy old rags which he told me to put on quickly, and when I had done that he made me follow him. Oh! he was a very dirty wretched man himself, but he must have had a kind heart. He took me by the hand and made me carry his broom and brushes. Nobody took much notice of us. The dorm was only just breaking, and the passages were very dark and deserted. Only once some soldiers began to chaff him about me. "'C'est ma fugue,' he said roughly. I very nearly laughed then, only I had the good sense to restrain myself. For I knew that my freedom and perhaps my life depended on my not betraying myself. My grimy, tattered guide took me with him right through the interminable corridors of that awful building, whilst I prayed fervently to God for him and for myself. We got out by one of the service-stairs and exit, and then he dragged me through some narrow streets until we came to a corner where a covered cart stood waiting. My kind friend told me to get into the cart, and then he bade the driver on the box take me straight to a house in the Rue Saint-Germain-Luxrois. Oh, I was infinitely grateful to the poor creature who had helped me to get out of that awful prison, and I would gladly have given him some money, for I am sure he was very poor. But I had none by me. He told me that I should be quite safe in the house in the Rue Saint-Germain-Luxrois, and begged me to wait there patiently for a few days until I heard from one who had my welfare at heart, and who would further arrange for my safety. Marguerite had listened silently to this narrative so naively told by this child, who obviously had no idea to whom she owed her freedom and her life. While the girl talked, her mind could follow with unspeakable pride and happiness every phase of that scene in the early dawn, when that mysterious, ragged man of all work, unbeknown even to the woman whom you were serving, risked his own noble life for the sake of her whom his friend and comrade loved. And did you never see again the kind man to whom you owe your life? She asked. No, replied John. I never saw him since. But when I arrived at the Rue Saint-Germain-Luxrois, I was told by the good people who took charge of me that the ragged man of all work had been none other than the mysterious Englishman whom Armand reveres, he whom they called the Scarlet Pimpernel. But you did not stay very long in the Rue Saint-Germain-Luxrois, did you? No, only three days. The third day I received a communique from the Committee of General Security, together with an unconditional certificate of safety. It meant that I was free, quite free. Oh, I could scarcely believe it. I laughed and I cried until the people in the house thought that I had gone mad. The past few days had been such a horrible nightmare. And then you saw Armand again? Yes. They told him that I was free, and he came here to see me. He often comes. He will be here and on. But are you not afraid on his account and your own? He is—he must be still, suspect, a well-known adherent of the Scarlet Pimpernel. He would be safer out of Paris. No, oh no, Armand is in no danger. He too has an unconditional certificate of safety. An unconditional certificate of safety? asked Marguerite, whilst a deep frown of grave puzzlement appeared between her brows. What does that mean? It means that he is free to come and go as he likes, that neither he nor I have anything to fear from Heron and his awful spies. Oh, but for that sad and care-worn look on Armand's face, we could be so happy. But he is so unlike himself. He is Armand, and yet another. His look at times quite frightens me. Yet you know why he is so sad, said Marguerite, in a strange, toneless voice, which he seemed quite unable to control, for that tonelessness came from a terrible sense of suffocation, of a feeling as if her heartstrings were being gripped by huge, hard hands. Yes, I know," said Jean, half hesitatingly, as if knowing she was still unconvinced. His chief, his comrade, the friend of whom you speak, the scarlet pimpinale who risked his life in order to save yours, mademoiselle, is a prisoner in the hands of those that hate him. Marguerite had spoken with sudden vehemence. There was almost an appeal in her voice now, as if she were trying not to convince Jean only, but also herself, of something that was quite simple, quite straightforward, and yet which appeared to be receding from her, an intangible something, a spirit that was gradually yielding to a force as yet unborn, to a phantom that had not yet emerged from out of chaos. But Jean seemed unconscious of all this. Her mind was absorbed in Armand, the man whom she loved in her simple, whole-hearted way, and who had seemed so different of late. Oh, yes, she said, with a deep, sad sigh, whilst the ever-ready tears once more gathered in her eyes. Armand is very unhappy because of him. The scarlet pimpinale was his friend. Armand loved and revered him. "'Did you know,' added the girl, turning large, horror-filled eyes on Marguerite, that they want some information from him about the dauphin, and to force him to give it they—' "'Yes, I know,' said Marguerite. "'Can you wonder, then, that Armand is unhappy? Oh, last night after he went from me I cried for hours, just because he had looked so sad. He no longer talks of happy England, of the cottage we were to have, and of the kentage orchards in May. He has not ceased to love me, for at times his love seems so great that I tremble with a delicious sense of fear. But, oh, his love for me no longer makes him happy.' Her head had gradually sunk lower and lower on her breast, her voice died down in a murmur broken by heart-rending sighs. Every generous impulse in Marguerite's noble nature prompted her to take that sorrowing child in her arms, to comfort her as she could, to reassure her if she had the power. But a strange, icy feeling had gradually invaded her heart, even whilst she listened to the simple, unsophisticated talk of Jean Lange. Her hands felt numb and clammy, and instinctively she withdrew away from the near vicinity of the girl. She felt as if the room, the furniture in it, even the window before her were dancing a wild and curious dance, and that from everywhere around strange whistling sounds reached her ears, which caused her head to whirl, and her brain to reel. Jean had buried her head in her hands. She was crying, softly, almost humbly at first, as if half ashamed of her grief. Then suddenly it seemed as if she could not contain herself any longer. A heavy sob escaped her throat, and shook her whole delicate frame with its violence. Sorrow no longer would be gainsaid. It insisted on physical expression, that awful tearing of heartstrings which leaves the body numb and panting with pain. In a moment Marguerite had forgotten. The dark and shapeless phantom that had knocked at the gate of her soul was relegated back into chaos. It ceased to be. It was made to shrivel and to burn in the great seething cauldron of womanly sympathy. What part this child had played in the vast cataclysm of misery which had dragged the noble hearted enthusiast into the dark torture-chamber, whence the only outlet led to the guillotine, she, Marguerite Blakeney, did not know. What part our mind her brother had played in it, that she would not dare to guess? All that she knew was that here was a loving heart that was filled with pain, a young, inexperienced soul that was having its first tussle with the grim realities of life, and every motherly instinct in Marguerite was aroused. She rose and gently drew the young girl up from her knees, and then closer to her. She pillowed the grief-stricken head against her shoulder, and murmured gentle, comforting words into the tiny ear. I have news for Armand, she whispered, that will comfort him. A message, a letter from his friend. You will see, dear, that when Armand reads it, he will become a changed man. You see, Armand acted a little foolishly a few days ago. His chief had given him orders, which he disregarded. He was so anxious about you. He should have obeyed. And now, may have, he feels that his disobedience may have been the—the innocent cause of much misery to others. That is, no doubt, the reason why he is so sad. The letter from his friend will cheer him. You will see. Do you really think so, madame? murmured Jean, in whose tear-stained eyes the indomitable hopefulness of youth was already striving to shine. I am sure of it, assented Marguerite. And for the moment she was absolutely sincere. The phantom had entirely vanished. She would even, had he dared to reappear, have mocked and derided him for his futile attempt at turning the sorrow in her heart to a veritable hell of bitterness. CHAPTER XXXIII. LITTLE MOTHER. The two women, both so young still, but each of them with a mark of sorrow already indelibly graven in her heart, were clinging to one another, bound together by the strong bond of sympathy. And but for the sadness of it all, it were difficult to conjure up a more beautiful picture than that which they presented as they stood side by side. Marguerite, tall and stately as an exquisite lily, with the crown of her ardent hair and the glory of her deep blue eyes. And Jean Lange, deity and delicate, with the brown curls and the childlike droop of the soft, moist lips. Thus Armand saw them when, a moment or two later, he entered and announced. He had pushed open the door and looked on the two women silently for a second or two. On the girl whom he loved so dearly, for whose sake he had committed the great, the unpardonable sin which would send him forever henceforth cane-like, a wanderer on the face of the earth. And the other, his sister, her whom a Judas act would condemn to a lonely sorrow and widowhood. He could have cried out in an agony of remorse, and it was the groan of acute soul anguish which escaped his lips that drew Marguerite's attention to his presence. Even though many things that Jean Lange had said had prepared her for a change in her brother, she was immeasurably shocked by his appearance. He had always been slim and rather below the average in height, but now his usually upright and trim figure seemed to have shrunk him within itself. His clothes hung baggy on his shoulders. His hands appeared waxen and emaciated, but the greatest changed when he was in his face, in the wide circles round the eyes that spoke of wakeful nights, in the hollow cheeks and the mouth that had wholly forgotten how to smile. Percy, after a week's misery immured in a dark and miserable prison, deprived of food and rest, did not look such a physical wreck as did Armand Sancheust, who was free. Marguerite's heart reproached her for what she felt had been neglect, callousness on her part. Mutely within herself, she craved his forgiveness for the appearance of that phantom which should never have come forth from out of that chaotic hell which had engendered it. Armand! she cried, and the loving arms that had guided his baby footsteps long ago, and the tender hands that had wiped his boyish tears, were stretched out with unaltreble love toward him. I have a message for you, dear, she said gently, a letter from him. Mademoiselle Jean allowed me to wait here for you until you came. Silently, like a little shy mouse, Jean had slipped out of the room. Her pure love for Armand had ennobled every one of her thoughts, and her innate kindliness and refinement had already suggested that brother and sister would wish to be alone. At the door she had turned and met Armand's look. That look had satisfied her. She felt that in it she had read the expression of his love, and to it she had responded with a glance that spoke of hope for a future meeting. As soon as the door had closed on Jean Lange, Armand, with an impulse that refused to be checked, threw himself into his sister's arms. The present, with all its sorrows, remorse and its shame, had sunk away. Only the past remained—the unforgettable past when Marguerite was little mother—the soother, the comforter, the healer, the ever-willing receptacle wherein he had been want to pour the burden of his childish griefs of his boyish escapades. Conscious that she could not know everything, not yet at any rate, he gave himself over to the rapture of this pure embrace the last time may have, that those fond arms would close round him in unmixed tenderness, the last time that those fond lips would murmur words of affection and of comfort. Tomorrow those same lips would perhaps curse the traitor, and the small hand be raised in wroth, pointing an avenging finger on the Judas. "'Little mother,' he whispered, babbling like a child, it is good to see you again. "'And I have brought you a message from Percy,' she said, a letter which he begged me to give you as soon as may be.' "'You have seen him,' he asked. She nodded silently, unable to speak, not now, not when her nerves were strung to breaking pitch would she trust herself to speak of that awful yesterday. She groped in the folds of her gown, and took the packet which Percy had given her for Armand. It felt quite bulky in her hand. "'There is quite a good deal there for you to read, dear,' she said. "'Persie begged me to give you this, and then to let you read it when you were alone.' She pressed the packet into his hand. Armand's face was ashen pale. He clung to her with a strange nervous tenacity. The paper which he held in one hand seemed to sear his fingers as with a branding-iron. "'I will slip away now,' she said, for strangely enough, since Percy's message had been in Armand's hands, she was once again conscious of that awful feeling of iciness round her heart—a sense of numbness that paralysed her very thoughts. "'You will make my excuses to Mademoiselle Lange,' she said, trying to smile. "'When you have read, you will wish to see her alone.' Gently she disengaged herself from Armand's grasp, and made for the door. He appeared dazed, staring down at that paper which was scorching his fingers. Only when her hand was on the latch did he seem to realise that she was going. "'Little mother,' came involuntarily to his lips. She came straight back to him, and took both his wrists and her small hands. She was taller than he, and his head was slightly bent forward. Thus she towered over him, loving but strong, her great, earnest eyes searching his soul. "'When shall I see you again, little mother?' he asked. "'Read your letter, dear,' she replied. "'And when you have read it, if you care to impart its contents to me, come to-night to my lodgings—guide-la ferrer above the Sadler's shop. But if there is aught in it that you do not wish me to know, then do not come. I shall understand. Good-bye, dear.' She took his head between her two cold hands, and as it was still bowed, she placed a tender kiss as of a long farewell upon his hair. Then she went out of the room. His head rested against one hand. In the other he held the letter written by the friend whom he had betrayed. Twice he had read it now, and already was every word of that minute, clear writing, graven upon the innermost fibres of his body, upon the most secret cells of his brain. Amand, I know. I knew even before Shovlon came to me, and stood there hoping to gloat over the soul-agony of a man who finds that he has been betrayed by his dearest friend. But that damned reprobate did not get that satisfaction, for I was prepared. Not only do I know Amand, but I understand. I, who do not know what love is, have realized how small a thing is honour, loyalty, or friendship, when weighed in the balance of a loved one's need. To save Jean, you sold me to Heron and his crowd. We are men, Amand, and the word forgiveness has only been spoken once, these past two thousand years, and then it was spoken by Divine Lips. But Marguerite loves you, and may Hap soon you will be all that has left her to love on this earth. Because of this she must never know. As for you, Amand, well, God help you, but me seems that the hell which you are enduring now is ten thousand times worse than mine. I have heard your furtive footsteps in the corridor outside the grated window of this cell, and would not then have exchanged my hell for yours. Therefore, Amand, and because Marguerite loves you, I would wish to turn to you in the hour that I need help. I am in a tight corner, but the hour may come when a comrade's hand might mean life to me. I have thought of you, Amand, partly because, having taken more than my life, your own belongs to me, and partly because the plan which I have in my mind will carry with it grave risks for the man who stands by me. I swore once that never would I risk a comrade's life to save mine own. But matters are so different now. We are both in hell, Amand. And I, in striving to get out of mine, will be showing you a way out of yours. Will you retake possession of your lodgings in the Roud de la Croix Blanche? I should always know, then, where to find you on an emergency. But if at any time you receive another letter from me, be its contents what they may, act in accordance with the letter, and send a copy of it at once to folks or to Marguerite. Keep in close touch with both of them. Tell her that I so far forgave your disobedience, there was nothing more, that I may yet trust my life and mine honour in your hands. I shall have no means of ascertaining definitely whether you will do all that I ask, but somehow, Amand, I know that you will. For the third time, Amand read the letter through. But, Amand, he repeated, murmuring the words softly under his breath, I know that you will. Prompted by some indefinable instinct, moved by a force that compelled, he allowed himself to glide from the chair onto the floor, onto his knees. All the pent-up bitterness, the humiliation, the shame of the past few days, surged up from his heart to his lips in one great cry of pain. My God! he whispered, give me the chance of giving my life for him. Alone and unwatched, he gave himself over for a few moments to the most voluptuous delight of giving free reign to his grief. The hot, latin blood in him, tempestuous in all its passions, was firing his heart and brain now with the glow of devotion and of self-sacrifice. The calm, self-centred Anglo-Saxon temperament, the almost fatalistic acceptance of failure without reproach, yet without despair, which Percy's letter to him had evidenced in so marked a manner, was may have, somewhat beyond the comprehension of this young enthusiast, with pure gallic blood in his veins, who was ever want to allow his most elemental passions to sway his actions. But though he did not altogether understand, Armand Saint-Just could fully appreciate. All that was noble and loyal in him rose triumphant from beneath the devastating ashes of his own shame. Soon his mood calmed down, his look grew less won and haggard. Hearing Jean's discreet and mouse-like steps in the next room, he rose quickly and hid the letter in the pocket of his coat. She came in, and inquired anxiously about Marguerite. A hurriedly expressed excuse from him, however, satisfied her easily enough. She wanted to be alone with Armand, happy to see that he held his head more erect today, and that the lookers of a hunted creature had entirely gone from his eyes. She ascribed this happy change to Marguerite, finding it in her heart to be grateful to the sister for having accomplished what the fiancé had failed to do. For a while they remained together, sitting side by side, speaking at times, but mostly silent, seeming to save for the return of true and happiness. Armand felt like a sick man who has obtained a sudden surcease from pain. He looked round him with a kind of melancholy delight on this room which he had entered for the first time less than a fortnight ago, and which already was so full of memories. Those first hours spent at the feet of Jean Lange, how exquisite they had been, how fleeting in the perfection of their happiness. Now they seemed to belong to a far distant past, evanescent, like the perfume of violence, swift in their flight like the winged steps of youth. Blakeney's letter had effectually taken the bitter sting from out his remorse, but it had increased his already over-heavy load of inconsolable sorrow. Later in the day he turned his footsteps in the direction of the river, to the house in the Guile-la-Ferrée, above the Sadler's shop. Marguerite had returned alone from the expedition to the Rue du Charon. Whilst Sir Andrew took charge of the little party of fugitives and escorted them out of Paris, she came back to her lodgings in order to collect her belongings, preparatory to taking up her quarters in the house of Lucas, the old clothes-dealer. She returned also because she hoped to see Armand. "'If you care to impart the contents of the letter to me, come to my lodgings to-night,' she had said. All day a phantom had haunted her—the phantom of an agonizing suspicion. But now the phantom had vanished, never to return. Armand was sitting close beside her, and he told her that the chief had selected him amongst all the others to stand by him inside the walls of Paris until the last. "'I shall may hap—thus close that precious document—have no means of ascertaining definitely, whether you will act in accordance with this letter. But somehow, Armand, I know that you will.' "'I know that you will, Armand,' reiterated Marguerite fervently. She had been only too eager to be convinced. The dread, arid, dark suspicion which had been like a hideous, poisoned sting had only vaguely touched her soul. It had not gone in very deeply. How could it? When in its death-dealing passage it encountered the rampart of tender, almost motherly love." Armand, trying to read his sister's thoughts in the depths of her blue eyes, found the look in them limpid and clear. Percy's message to Armand had reassured her, just as he had intended that it should do. Fate had dealt over harshly with her as it was, and Blakeney's remorse for the sorrow which he had already caused her was scarcely less keen than Armand's. He did not wish her to bear the intolerable burden of hatred against her brother, and by binding Saint-Jus close to him at the supreme hour of danger, he hoped to prove to the woman whom he loved so passionately that Armand was worthy of trust. Chapter 35 The Last Phase Well, how is it now? The last phase, I think. He will yield? He must. You have said it yourself often enough. Those English are tough. It takes time to hack them to pieces, perhaps. In this case even you, Citizen Chauvelin, said that it would take time. Well, it has taken just seventeen days, and now the end is in sight. It was close on midnight in the guard-room which gave on the innermost cell of the Gonsiacherie. Heron had just visited the prisoner, as was his one to this hour of the night. He had watched the changing of the guard, inspected the night-watch, questioned the sergeant in charge, and finally he had been on the point of retiring to his own new quarters in the House of Justice, in the near vicinity of the Gonsiacherie, when Citizen Chauvelin entered the guard room unexpectedly, and attained his colleague with the peremptory question, how is it now? If you are so near the end, Citizen Heron, he now said, sinking his voice to a whisper, why not make a final effort and end it to-night? I wish I could. The anxiety is wearing me out more than him, he added, with a jerky movement of the head in the direction of the inner cell. Shall I try? rejoined Chauvelin grimly. Yes, I knew wish. Citizen Heron's long limbs were sprawling on a guard-room chair. In this low, narrow room he looked like some giant whose body had been carelessly and looselessly put together by apprentice hand in the art of manufacture. His broad shoulders were bent, probably under the weight of anxiety to which he had referred, and his head and the lank, shaggy hair, overshadowing the brow, was sunk deep down on his chest. Chauvelin looked at his friend and associate with no small measure of contempt. He would no doubt have preferred to conclude the present difficult transaction entirely in his own way and alone. But equally, there was no doubt that the Committee of Public Safety did not trust him quite so fully as it used to do before the fiasco at Calais and the blunders at Boulogne. Heron, on the other hand, enjoyed to its outermost the confidence of his colleagues. His ferocious cruelty and his callousness were well known, whilst physically, owing to his great height and bulky, if loosely knit frame, he had a decided advantage over his trim and slender friend. As far as bringing the prisoners to trial was concerned, the Chief Agent of the Committee of General Security had been given a perfectly free hand by the decree of the 27th Nivours. At first, therefore, he had experienced no difficulty when he desired to keep the Englishmen in close confinement for a time without hurrying on that summery trial and condemnation which the populace had loudly demanded, and to which they felt that they were entitled as to a public holiday. The death of the Scarlet Pimpinil on the guillotine had been a spectacle promised by every demagogue who desired to purchase a few votes by holding out visions of pleasant doings to come, and during the first few days the mob of Paris was content to enjoy the delights of expectation. But now seventeen days had gone by, and still the Englishmen was not being brought to trial. The pleasure-loving public was waxing impatient, and earlier this evening, when Citizen Heron had shown himself in the stalls of the National Theatre, he was greeted by a crowded audience with decided expressions of disapproval and open mutterings of what of the Scarlet Pimpinil. It almost looked as if he would have to bring that accursed Englishman to the guillotine without having rested from him the secret which he would have given a fortune to possess. Chauvelin, who had also been present at the theatre, had heard the expressions of discontent. Hence his visit to his colleague at this late hour of the night. Shall I try? he had queried with some impatience, and a deep sigh of satisfaction escaped his thin lips when the chief agent, weary and discouraged, had reluctantly agreed. Let the men make as much noise as they like, he added, with an enigmatic smile. The Englishman and I will want an accompaniment to our pleasant conversation. Heron growled a surly assent, and without another word Chauvelin turned towards the inner cell. As he stepped in he allowed the iron bar to fall into its socket behind him. Then he went farther into the room until the distant recess was fully revealed to him. His tread had been furtive and almost noiseless. Now he paused, for he had caught sight of the prisoner. For a moment he stood quite still, with hands clasped behind his back in his wanted attitude, still safe for a strange involuntary twitching of his mouth, and the nervous clasping and interlocking of his fingers behind his back. He was savoring to its utmost fulsomeness the supremest joy which animal man can ever know—the joy of looking on a fallen enemy. Blakene sat at the table with one arm resting on it, the emaciated hand tightly clutched, the body leaning forward, the eyes looking into nothingness. For the moment he was unconscious of Chauvelin's presence, and the latter could gaze on him to the full content of his heart. Indeed, to all outward appearances there sat a man whom privations of every sort and kind, the want of fresh air, of proper food, above all of rest, had worn down physically to a shadow. There was not a particle of colour in cheeks or lips, the skin was grey in hue, the eyes looked like deep caverns wherein the glow of fever was all that was left of life. Chauvelin looked on in silence, vaguely stirred by something that he could not define, something that, right through his triumph and satisfaction, his hatred and final certainty of revenge had roused in him a sense almost of admiration. He gazed on the noiseless figure of the man who had endured so much for an ideal, and as he gazed it seemed to him as if the spirit no longer dwelt in the body, but hovered round in the dank, stuffy air of the narrow cell above the head of the lonely prisoner, crowning it with glory that was no longer of this earth. Of this the looker on was conscious despite himself, of that and of the fact that stare as he might, and with perception rendered doubly keen by hate, he could not, in spite of all, find the least trace of mental weakness in that far-seeing gaze which seemed to pierce the prison walls, nor could he see that bodily weakness had tended to subdue the ruling passions. Sir Percy Blakeney, a prisoner since seventeen days in close, solitary confinement, half-starved, deprived of rest and of that mental and physical activity which had been the very essence of life to him hitherto, might be outwardly but a shadow of his former brilliant self, but nevertheless he was still that same elegant English gentleman, that Prince of Dandies whom Chauvelin had first met eighteen months ago at the most courtly court in Europe. His clothes, despite constant wear and the want of attention from a scrupulous valley, still betrayed the perfection of London tailoring. He had put them on with meticulous care. They were free from the slightest particle of dust, and the filmy folds of priceless meshlance still half-failed the delicate whiteness of his shapely hands. And in the pale, haggard face, in the whole pose of body and of arm, there was still the expression of that indomitable strength of will, that reckless daring, that almost insolent challenge to fate. It was there, untamed, uncrashed. Chauvelin himself could not deny to himself its presence or its force. He felt that behind that smooth brow, which look wax-like now, the mind was still alert, scheming, plotting, striving for freedom, for conquest and for power, and rendered even doubly keen and virile by the ardour of supreme self-sacrifice. Chauvelin now made a slight movement, and suddenly Blakeney became conscious of his presence, and swift as a flash a smile lit up his one face. "'My, if it is not my engaging friend, M. Chombertin,' he said gaily. He rose and stepped forward in the most approved fashion prescribed by the elaborate etiquette of the time. But Chauvelin smiled grimly, and a look of almost animal lust gleamed in his pale eyes, for he had noted that as he rose, so Percy had to seek the support of the table, even whilst a dull film appeared to gather over his eyes. The gesture had been quick and cleverly disguised, but it had been there nevertheless, that and the livid hue that overspread the face as if consciousness was threatening to go. All of which was sufficient still further to assure the looker on that that mighty physical strength was giving way at last, that strength which he had hated in his enemy almost as much as he had hated the thinly veiled insolence in his manner. "'And what procures me, sir, the honour of your visits?' continued Blakeney, who had at any rate outwardly soon recovered himself, and whose voice, though distinctly hoarse and spent, rang quite cheerfully across the dank, narrow cell. "'My desire for your welfare, sir Percy,' replied Chauvelin, with equal pleasantry. "'Last, sir, but have you not gratified that desire already to an extent which leaves no room for further solicitude? But I pray you, will you not sit down?' he continued, turning back toward the table. I was about to partake of the lavish supper which your friends have provided for me. Will you not share it, sir? You are most royally welcome, and it will may hap remind you of that supper we shared together in Calais, eh, when you, M. Chambertin, were temporarily in holy orders. He laughed, offering his enemy a chair, and pointed with inviting gesture to the hunk of brown bread in the mug of water which stood on the table. "'Such as it is, sir,' he said, with a pleasant smile, it is yours to command. Chauvelin sat down. He held his lower lip tightly between his teeth, so tightly that a few drops of blood appeared upon its narrow surface. He was making vigorous efforts to keep his temper under control, for he would not give his enemy the satisfaction of seeing him resent his insolence. He could afford to keep calm now that victory was at last in sight, now that he knew that he had but to raise a finger, and those smiling impudent lips would be closed forever at last. "'Sir Percy,' he resumed quietly, no doubt it affords you a certain amount of pleasure to aim your sarcastic shafts at me. I will not begrudge you that pleasure. In your present position, sir, your shafts have little or no sting. And I shall have but few chances left to aim them at your charming self, in deposed Blakeney, who had drawn another chair close to the table, and was now sitting opposite his enemy, with the light of the lamp falling full on his own face, as if he wished his enemy to know that he had nothing to hide—no thought, no hope, no fear." "'Exactly,' said Chauvelin, dryly. "'That being the case, sir Percy, what say you to no longer wasting the few chances which are left to you for safety? The time is getting on. You are not, I imagine, quite as hopeful as you were even a week ago. You have never been over-comfortable in this cell. Why not end this unpleasant state of affairs now, once and for all? You will not have cause to regret it, my word on it.' Sir Percy leaned back in his chair. He yawned loudly and ostentatiously. "'I pray you, sir, forgive me,' he said. "'Never have I been so damned fatigued. I have not slept for more than a fortnight.' "'Exactly,' said Percy. "'A night's rest would do you a world of good.' "'A night, sir,' exclaimed Blakeney, with what seemed like an echo of his former inimitable laugh. La! I should want a week. I am afraid we could not arrange for that. But one night would greatly refresh you.' "'You are right, sir, you are right. But those damned fellows in the next room make so much noise. I would give strict orders that perfect quiet you'd reigned in the guardroom this night,' said Chauvelin murmuring softly, and there was a gentle purr in his voice, and that you were left undisturbed for several hours. I would give orders that a comforting supper be served to you at once, and that everything be done to minister to your once.' "'That sounds damned alluring, sir. Why did you not suggest this before?' "'You were so—what shall I say—so obstinate, Sir Percy?' "'Call it pig-headed, my dear Monsieur Chambotin,' retorted Blakeney gaily. Truly you would oblige me.' "'In any case you, sir, were acting in direct opposition to your own interests. Therefore you came,' concluded Blakeney airily, like the good Samaritan to take compassion on me and my troubles, and to lead me straight away to comfort a good supper in a downy bed.' "'Admirably put, sir Percy,' said Chauvelin bluntly, that is exactly my mission.' "'How will you set to work, Monsieur Chambotin?' "'Quite easily, if you, sir Percy, will yield to the persuasion of my friend, Citizen Heron.' "'Ah! Why, yes. He is anxious to know where little Carpe is—a reasonable whim, you alone, considering that the disappearance of the child is causing him grave anxiety. "'And you, Monsieur Chambotin?' queried Sir Percy, with that suspicion of insolence in his manner, which had the power to irritate his enemy even now. "'And yourself so. What are your wishes in the matter?' "'Mine, Sir Percy,' retorted Chauvelin, "'mine. Why, to tell you the truth, the fate of little Carpe interests me but little. Let him rot in Austria or in our prisons, I cannot which. He'll never trouble France over much, I imagine. The teachings of Ultimont will not tend to make a leader or a king out of the puny brat whom you chose to drag out of our keeping. My wishes, Sir, are the annihilation of your accursed league and the lasting disgrace, if not the death, of its chief.' He had spoken more hotly than he had intended. But all the pent-up rage of the past eighteen months, the recollections of Calais and of Boulogne, had all surged up again in his mind. Because, despite of the closeness of these prison walls, despite the grim shadow of starvation and of death that beckoned so close at hand, he still encountered a pair of mocking eyes fixed with relentless insolence upon him. Whilst he spoke, Blatney had once more leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the table. Now he drew nearer to him the wooden platter on which reposed that very uninviting piece of dry bread. With solemn intentness he proceeded to break the bread into pieces. Then he offered the platter to Chauvelin. I am sorry, Sir," he said pleasantly, that I cannot offer you more dainty fare, Sir, but this is all that your friends have supplied me with today. He crumbled some of the dry bread in his slender fingers, then started munching the crumbs with apparent relish. He poured out some mortar into the mug and drank it. Then he said with a light laugh, even the vinegar which that ruffian brogarde served as a calais was preferable to this. Do you not imagine so, my good Monsieur Chambardin? Chauvelin made no reply. Like a feline creature on the prowl, he was watching the prey that had so nearly succumbed to his talons. Blatney's face now was positively ghastly. The effort to speak, to laugh, to appear unconcerned, was apparently beyond his strength. His cheeks and lips were livid in hue. The skin clung like a thin layer of wax to the bones of cheek and jaw, and the heavy lids that fell over the eyes had purple patches on them like lead. To a system in such an advanced state of exhaustion, the stale water and dusty bread must have been terribly nauseating, and Chauvelin himself, callous and thirsting for vengeance though he was, could hardly bear to look calmly on the martyrdom of this man, whom he and his colleagues were torturing in order to gain their own ends. An ash and hue, which seemed like the shadow of the hand of death, passed over the prisoner's face. Chauvelin felt compelled to avert his gaze, a feeling that was almost akin to remorse had stirred in a hidden cord in his heart. The feeling did not last. The heart had been too long atrophied by the constantly recurring spectacles of cruelties, massacres, and wholesale hecatombs perpetrated in the past eighteen months in the name of liberty and fraternity, to be capable of a sustained effort in the direction of gentleness or of pity. Any noble instinct in these revolutionaries had long ago been drowned in a whirlpool of exploits that would forever sully the records of humanity, and this keeping of a fellow creature on the rack in order to ring from him a Judas-like betrayal was but a compliment to a record of infamy that had ceased by its very magnitude to weigh upon their souls. Chauvelin was in no way different from his colleagues. The crimes in which he had had no hand he had condoned by continuing to serve the government that had committed them, and his ferocity in the present case was increased a thousandfold by his personal hatred for the man who had so often fooled and baffled him. When he looked round a second or two later, that ephemeral fit of remorse did its final vanishing. He had once more encountered the pleasant smile, the laughing, if ashen pale face of his unconquered foe. Only a passing giddiness, my dear sir, said Sir Percy lightly, as you were saying, at the airily spoken words, at the smile that accompanied them, Chauvelin had jumped to his feet. There was something almost supernatural, weird, and impish about the present situation, about this dying man who, like an impudent schoolboy, seemed to be mocking death with his tongue in his cheek, about his laugh that appeared to find its echo in a widely yawning grave. In the name of God, Sir Percy, he said roughly, as he brought his clenched fist crashing down upon the table, this situation is intolerable. Bring it to an end to-night. Aye, sir, retorted Blakeney, we thought you and your kind did not believe in God. No, but you English do. We do. But we do not care to hear his name on your lips. Then in the name of the wife whom you love, but even before the words had died upon his lips, Sir Percy too had risen to his feet. Have done, man, have done! He broke in hoarsely, and despite weakness, despite exhaustion and weariness, there was such a dangerous look in his hollow eyes as he leaned across the table that Chauvelin drew back a step or two, and vaguely fearful, looked furtively towards the opening into the guard room. Have done! he reiterated for a third time. Do not name her, or by the living God whom you dared to invoke, I'll find strength yet to smite you in the face. But Chauvelin, after that first moment of almost superstitious fear, had quickly recovered his sang-froid. Little capé, Sir Percy, he said, meeting the other's threatening glance with an imperturbable smile, tell me where to find him, and you may yet live to savor the caresses of the most beautiful woman in England. He had meant it as a taunt, the final turn of the thumbscrew applied to a dying man, and he had in that watchful keen mind of his well weighed the full consequences of the taunt. The next moment he had paid to the full the anticipated price. Sir Percy had picked up the pewter mug from the table. It was half filled with brackish water, and with a hand that trembled, but slightly, he held it straight at his opponent's face. The heavy mug did not hit Citizen Chauvelin. It went crashing against the stone wall opposite. But the water was trickling from the top of his head, all down his eyes and cheeks. He shrugged his shoulders with a look of benign indulgence directed at his enemy, who had fallen back into his chair exhausted with the effort. Then he took out his handkerchief and calmly wiped the water from his face. Not quite so straight a shot as you used to be, Sir Percy, he said mockingly. No, sir. Apparently—not. The words came out in gasps. He was like a man only partly conscious. The lips were parted, the eyes closed, the head leaning against the high back of the chair. For the space of one second Chauvelin feared that his zeal had outrun his prudence, that he had dealt a death blow to a man on the last stage of exhaustion where he had only wished to fan the flickering flame of life. Hastily, for the second scene precious, he ran to the opening that led into the guard room. Brandy! Quick! he cried. Heron looked up, roused from the semi-somnolence in which he had lain for the past half-hour. He disentangled his long limbs from out the guard room chair. Hey! he queried. What is it? Brandy! reiterated Chauvelin patiently. The prisoner has fainted. Bah! retorted the other with a callous shrug of the shoulders. You are not going to revive him with Brandy, I imagine. No, but you will, citizen Heron. Rejoined the other, dryly. For if you do not, he'll be dead in an hour. Devils in hell! exclaimed Heron. You have not killed him. You—you damned fool! He was wide awake enough now. Wide awake and shaking with fury. Almost foaming at the mouth and uttering volleys of the choicest oaths, he earbought his way roughly through the groups of soldiers who were crowding round the centre-table of the guard room, smoking and throwing dice or playing cards. They made way for him as hurriedly as they could, for it was not safe to thwart the citizen agent when he was in a rage. Heron walked across to the opening and lifted the iron bar. With scant ceremony, he pushed his colleague aside and strode into the cell, whilst Chauvelin, seemingly not resenting the other's ruffingly manners in violent language, followed close upon his heel. In the centre of the room both men paused, and Heron turned with a surly growl to his friend. You vowed he would be dead in an hour, he said reproachfully. The other shrugged his shoulders. It does not look like it now, certainly, he said, dryly. Blagney was sitting, as was his want, close to the table, with one arm leaning on it. The other tightly clenched, resting upon his knee. A ghost of a smile hovered round his lips. Not in an hour, citizen Heron, he said, and his voice flow was scarce above a whisper, nor yet in two. You are a fool, man, said Heron, roughly. You have had seventeen days of this. Are you not sick of it? Heartily, my dear friend, replied Blagney a little more firmly. Seventeen days, reiterated the other, nodding his shaggy head, you came here on the second pluvios. Today is the nineteenth. The nineteenth pluvios, interposed Sir Percy, and a strange gleam suddenly flashed in his eyes. Dement, sir, and in Christian parlance, what may that day be? The seventh of February at your service, Sir Percy, replied Chauvelin quietly. I thank you, sir. In this damned whole I had lost count of time. Chauvelin, unlike his rough and blundering colleague, had been watching the prisoner very closely for the last moment or two, conscious of a subtle, undefinable change that had come over the man during these few seconds while he, Chauvelin, had thought him dying. The pose was certainly the old familiar one. The head erect, the hand clenched, the eyes looking through and beyond the stone walls. But there was an air of listlessness in the stoop of the shoulders, and—except for that one brief gleam just now—a look of more complete weariness round the hollow eyes. To the keen watcher it appeared as if that sense of living power, of unconquered will and defiant mind, was no longer there, and as if he himself need no longer fear that almost super sensual thrill which had a while ago kindled in him a vague sense of admiration, almost of remorse. Even as he gazed, Blakeney slowly turned his eyes full upon him. Chauvelin's heart gave a triumphant bound. With a mocking smile he met the wearied look, the pitiable appeal. His turn had come at last, his turn to mock and to exult. He knew that what he was watching now was no longer the last phase of a long and noble martyrdom. It was the end, the inevitable end, that for which he had schemed and striven, for which he had schooled his heart to ferocity and callousness that were devilish in their intensity. It was the end indeed, the slow descent of a soul from the giddy heights of attempted self-sacrifice, where it had striven to soar for a time, until the body and the will both succumbed together, and dragged it down with them into the abyss of submission, and of irreparable shame. Silence reigned in the narrow cell for a few moments, whilst two human jackals stood motionless over their captured prey. A savage triumph gleamed in Chauvelin's eyes, and even Heron, dull and brutal though he was, had become vaguely conscious of the great change that had come over the prisoner. Blakeney, with a gesture and a sigh of hopeless exhaustion, had once more rested both his elbows on the table. His head fell heavy and almost lifeless downward in his arms. "'Curs you, man!' cried Heron, almost involuntarily. Why in the name of hell did you wait so long?' Then, as the prisoner made no reply, but only raised his head slightly, and looked on the other two men with dulled, wearied eyes, Chauvelin interposed calmly. More than a fortnight has been wasted in useless obstinacy, Sir Percy. Fortunately, it is not too late. "'Cappay!' said Heron, hoarsely. Tell us, where is Cappay?' He leaned across the table. His eyes were blunt shot with the keenness of his excitement. His voice shook with the passionate desire for the crowning triumph. "'If you'll only not worry me,' murmured the prisoner, and the whisper came so laboriously and so low that both men were forced to bend their ears close to the scarcely moving lips. If you will let me sleep and rest and leave me in peace.' The peace of the grave, man, retorted Chauvelin roughly, if you will only speak. Where is Cappay?' "'I cannot tell you.' The way is long. The road—intricate. Bah! I'll lead you to him, if you will give me rest.' "'We don't want you to lead us anywhere,' growled Heron, with a smothered curse. Tell us where Cappay is. We'll find him right enough.' "'I cannot explain. The way is intricate. The place, off the beaten track, unknown except to me and my friends.' Once more that shadow, which was so like the passing of the hand of death, overspread the prisoner's face. His head rolled back against the chair. "'You'll die before he can speak,' muttered Chauvelin under his breath. You usually are well provided with brandy, citizen Heron.' The latter no longer demurred. He saw the dangerous clearly as did his colleague. It had been Hell's own luck, if the prisoner were to die now when he seemed ready to give in. He produced a flask from the pocket of his coat, and this he held to Blakeney's lips. "'Beastly stuff,' murmured the latter feebly. I think I'd sooner faint than drink.' "'Cappay! Where is Cappay?' reiterated Heron impatiently. One, two, three hundred leagues from here. I must lead one of my friends now. He'll communicate with the others. They must be prepared.' replied the prisoner slowly. Heron uttered a blasphemous oath. "'Where is Cappay? Tell us where Cappay is, or—' He was like a raging tiger, that had thought to hold its prey and suddenly realize that it was being snatched from him. He raised his fist, and without doubt the next moment he would have silenced forever the lips that held the precious secret. But Chauvelin fortunately was quick enough to seize his wrist. "'Have a care, citizen,' he said, prematurely. "'Have a care. You called me a fool just now when you thought I had killed the prisoner. It is his secret we want first. His death can follow afterwards.' "'Yes, but not in this damned whole,' murmured Blakeney. "'On the guillotine, if you'll speak,' cried Heron, whose exasperation was getting the better of his self-interest. "'But if you'll not speak, then it shall be starvation in this whole. Yes, starvation!' he growled, showing a row of large and uneven teeth, like those of some mongrel kerr. "'For I'll have that door walled in to-night, and not another living soul to cross this threshold again until your flesh has rotted on your bones and the rats have had their full of you.' The prisoner raised his head slowly. A shiver shook him as if caused by Agu, and his eyes, that appeared almost sightless, now looked with a strange glance of horror on his enemy. "'I'll die in the open,' he whispered, not in this damned whole. "'Then tell us where Capay is.' "'I cannot. I wished to God I could. But I'll take you to him, I swear I will. I'll make my friends give him up to you. Do you think that I would not tell you now if I could?' Heron, whose every instinct of tyranny revolted against this thwarting of his will, would have continued to heckle the prisoner even now, had not Chauvelin suddenly interposed with an authoritative gesture. "'You'll gain nothing this way, citizen,' he said quietly. The man's mind is wandering. He is probably quite unable to give you clear directions at this moment. "'What am I to do, then?' muttered the other, roughly. He cannot live another twenty-four hours now, and would only grow more and more helpless as time went on. "'Unless you relax your strict regime with him. And if I do, we'll only prolong this situation indefinitely. And in the meanwhile, how do we know that the brat is not being spirited away out of the country?' The prisoner, with his head once more buried in his arms, had fallen into a kind of torpor, the only kind of sleep that the exhausted system would allow. With a brutal gesture, Heron shook him by the shoulder. "'Hey,' he shouted. "'None of that, you know. We have not settled the matter of young Capay yet.' Then, as the prisoner made no movement, and the chief agent indulged in one of his favourite volleys of oaths, Chauvelin placed a premmetry hand on his colleague's shoulder. "'I tell you, citizen, that this is no use,' he said firmly. "'Unless you are prepared to give up all thoughts of finding Capay, you must try and curb your temper, and try diplomacy, where force is sure to fail.' "'Diplomacy,' retorted the other, with a sneer. "'Bah! It served you well at Boulogne your last autumn, did it not, citizen Chauvelin?' "'It has served me better now,' rejoined the other, imperturbably. "'You will own, citizen, that it is my diplomacy which is placed within your reach the ultimate hope of finding Capay.' "'Hm,' muttered the other, "'you advised us to starve the prisoner. Are we any nearer to knowing his secret?' "'Yes. By a fortnight of weariness, of exhaustion, and of starvation, you are nearer to it by the weakness of a man whom in his full strength you could never hope to conquer. But if the cursed Englishman won't speak, and in the meanwhile dies on my hands, he won't do that if you exceed to his wish. Give him some good food now, and let him sleep till dawn. And at dawn he'll defy me again. I believe now that he has some scheme in his mind a means to play us a trick.' "'That, I imagine, is more than likely,' retorted Chauvelin dryly, though, he added, with a contemptuous nod of the head directed at the huddled up figure of his once brilliant enemy, neither mind nor body seemed to me to be in a sufficiently active state just now for hatching plot or intrigue. But even if, vaguely floating through his clouded mind, there has sprung some little scheme for evasion, I give you my word, Citizen Heron, that you can thought him completely and gain all that you desire, if you will only follow my advice.' There had always been a great amount of persuasive power in Citizen Chauvelin, ex-envoy of the revolutionary government of France at the court of St. James, and that same persuasive eloquence did not fail now in its effect on the chief agent of the Committee of General Security. The latter was made of coarser stuff than his more brilliant colleague. Chauvelin was like a wily and sleek panther that is furtive in its movements, that will lure its prey, watch it, follow it with stealthy footsteps, and only pounce on it when it is least wary, whilst Heron was more like a raging bull that tosses its head in a blind, irresponsible fashion, rushes at an obstacle without gauging its resisting powers, and allows its victim to slip from beneath its weight through the very clumsiness and brutality of its assault. So Chauvelin had two heavy black marks against him, those of his failures at Calais and Boulogne. Heron rendered cautious both by the deadly danger in which he stood and the sense of his own incompetence to deal with a present situation, tried to resist the other's authority as well as his persuasion. Your advice was of no great use to Citizen Colau last autumn at Boulogne, he said, and spat on the ground by way of expressing both his independence and his contempt. Still, Citizen Heron, retorted Chauvelin with unruffled patience, it is the best advice that you are likely to get in the present emergency. You have eyes to see, have you not? Look on your prisoner at this moment. Unless something is done, and at once, too, he will be past negotiating with in the next twenty-four hours. Then what will follow? He put his thin hand once more on his colleague's grubby coat-sleeve. He drew him closer to himself, away from the vicinity of that huddled figure, that captive lion wrapped in a torpid somnolence that looked already so like the last long sleep. What will follow, Citizen Heron? he reiterated, sinking his voice to a whisper. Sooner or later some meddlesome busybody who sits in the assembly of the convention will get wind that Little Capay is no longer in the temple prison, that a pauper child was substituted for him, and that you, Citizen Heron, together with the commissaries in charge, have thus been fooling with the nation and its representatives for over a fortnight. What will follow then, think you? And he made an expressive gesture with his outstretched fingers across his throat. Heron found no other answer but blasphemy. I'll make that cursed Englishman speak yet, he said, with a fierce oath. You cannot, retorted Chauvelin decisively. In his present state he is incapable of it, even if he would, which also is doubtful. Ah! Then you do think that he still means to cheat us. Yes, I do. But I also know that he is no longer in a physical state to do it. No doubt he thinks that he is. A man of that type is sure to overvalue his own strength. But look at him, Citizen Heron. Surely you must see that we have nothing to fear from him now. Heron now was like a voracious creature that has two victims lying ready for his gluttonous jaws. He was loath to let either of them go. He hated the very thought of seeing the Englishman being led out of this narrow cell, where he had kept a watchful eye over him night and day for a fortnight, satisfied that with every day, every hour, the chances of escape became more improbable and more rare. At the same time there was a possibility of the recapture of Little Capay, a possibility which made Heron's brain real with the delightful vista of it, and which might never come about if the prisoner remained silent to the end. I wish I were quite sure, he said sullenly, that you were body and soul in accord with me. I am in accord with you, Citizen Heron, rejoined the other earnestly, body and soul in accord with you. Do you not believe that I hate this man? I, hate him with a hatred ten thousand times more strong than yours. I want his death. Heaven or hell alone know how I long for that. But what I long for most is his lasting disgrace. For that I have worked, Citizen Heron. For that I advised and helped you. When first you captured this man, you wanted summarily to try him, to send him to the guillotine amidst the joy of the populace of Paris, and crowned with a splendid halo of martyrdom. That man, Citizen Heron, would have baffled you, mocked you, and fooled you even on the steps of the scaffold. In the zenith of his strength and of insurmountable good luck, you and all your murmidance and all the assembled guard of Paris would have had no power over him. The day that you led him out of this cell, in order to take him to trial or to the guillotine, would have been that of your hopeless discomforture. Having once walked out of this cell hail, hearty, and alert, be the escort round him ever so strong, he never would have re-entered it again. Of that I am as convinced as that I am alive. I know the man. You don't. Mine are not the only fingers through which he has slipped. Ask Citizen Collo d'Erboire. Ask Sergeant Beboe at the barrier of Menille-Montain. Ask General Santére on his guards. They all have a tale to tell. Did I believe in God or the devil, I shall also believe that this man has supernatural powers and a host of demons at his beck and call. Yet you talk now of letting him walk out of this cell to-morrow. He is a different man now, Citizen Heron. On my advice, you placed him on a regime that has counteracted the supernatural power by simple physical exhaustion, and driven to the four winds the host of demons, who no doubt fled in the face of starvation. If I only thought that the recapture of Capay was as vital to you as it is to me, said Heron, still unconvinced, the capture of Capay is just as vital to me as it is to you. Rejoined Chauvelin earnestly, if it is brought about through the instrumentality of the Englishman. He paused, looking intently on his colleague, whose shifty eyes encountered his own. Thus, eye to eye, the two men at last understood one another. Ah! said Heron with a snort. I think I understand. I am sure that you do, responded Chauvelin dryly. The disgrace of this cursed scarlet pimponon and his leak is as vital to me and more as the capture of Capay is to you. That is why I showed you the way how to bring that meddlesome adventurer to his knees. That is why I will help you now, both to find Capay and with his aid, and to wreak what reprisals you like on him in the end. Heron, before he spoke again, cast one more look on the prisoner. The latter had not stirred. His face was hidden, but the hands, emaciated, nervous and waxing, like those of the dead, told a more eloquent tale may have then than the eyes could do. The chief agent of the Committee of General Security walked deliberately round the table, until he stood once more close beside the man from whom he longed with passionate ardour to rest an all-important secret. With brutal, grimy hand he raised the head that lays sunken and inert against the table. With callous eyes he gazed attentively on the face that was then revealed to him. He looked on the wax and flesh, the hollow eyes, the bloodless lips. Then he shrugged his wide shoulders, and with a laugh that surely must have caused joy in hell, he allowed the wearied head to fall back against the outstretched arms, and turned once again to his colleague. I think you are right, Citizen Chauvelin," he said. There is not much supernatural power here. Let me hear your advice. Chapter 37 of El Dorado by Baron Essosie Read for Librevox.org by Karen Savage in September 2007 Chapter 37 Chauvelin's Advice Citizen Chauvelin had drawn his colleague with him to the end of the cell that was farthest away from the recess and the table at which the prisoner was sitting. Here the noise and hubbub that went on constantly in the guard room would effectually drown a whispered conversation. Chauvelin called to the sergeant to hand him a couple of chairs over the barrier. These he placed against the wall opposite the opening, and beckoning Heron to sit down, he did likewise, placing himself close to his colleague. From where the two men now sat, they could both see into the guard room opposite them, and into the recess at the furthermost end of the cell. First of all, began Chauvelin after a while, and sinking his voice to a whisper, Let me understand you thoroughly, Citizen Heron. Do you want the death of the Englishman, either to-day or to-morrow, either in this prison or on the guillotine? For that now is easy of accomplishment, or do you want, above all, to get hold of Little Capay? It is Capay I want, growled Heron savagely under his breath. Capay! Capay! My own neck is dependent on my finding Capay. Curse, you have I not told you that clearly enough? You have told it me very clearly, Citizen Heron, but I wish to make a sure and stubbly sure, and also to make you understand that I, too, want the Englishman to betray Little Capay into your hands. I want that more even than I do his death. Then in the name of hell, Citizen, give me your advice! My advice to you, Citizen Heron, is this. Give your prisoner now just a sufficiency of food to revive him. He will have had a few moments sleep, and when he has eaten, and may have drunk a glass of wine, he will, no doubt, feel a recudescence of strength. Then give him pen and ink and paper. He must, as he says, write to one of his followers, who, in his turn, I suppose, will communicate with the others, bidding them to be prepared to deliver up Little Capay to us. The letter must make it clear to that crowd of English gentlemen that their beloved chief is giving up the uncrowed King of France to us in exchange for his own safety. But I think he will agree with me, Citizen Heron, that it would not be overprudent on our part to allow that same gallant crowd to be forewarned too soon of the proposed doings of their chief. Therefore, I think, we'll explain to the prisoner that his follower, whom he will first apprise of his intentions, shall start with us tomorrow on our expedition, and accompany us until its last stage, when, if it is found necessary, he may be sent on ahead, strongly escorted, of course, and with personal messages from the gallant scarlet Pimpernel to the members of his league. What will be the good of that? broke in Heron viciously. Do you want one of his accursed followers to be ready to give him a helping hand on the way if he tries to slip through our fingers? Patience, patience, my good Heron, rejoin Chauvelin with a placid smile. Hear me out to the end. Time is precious. You shall offer what criticism you will when I have finished, but not before. Go on, then. I listen. I am not only proposing that one member of the scarlet Pimpernel league shall accompany us tomorrow, continued Chauvelin, but I would also force the prisoner's wife, Margrethe Blakeney, to follow in our train. A woman? Bah! What for? I will tell you the reason of this presently. In her case, I would not let the prisoner know beforehand that she too will form a part of our expedition. Let this come as a pleasing surprise for him. She could join us on our way out of Paris. How will you get hold of her? Easily enough. I know where to find her. I traced her myself a few days ago to a house in the Rue de Charon, and she is not likely to have gone away from Paris while her husband was at the Consignerie. But this is our digression. Let me proceed more consecutively. The letter, as I have said, being written to-night by the prisoner to one of his followers, I will myself see that it is delivered into the right hands. You, citizen Heron, will, in the meanwhile, make all arrangements for the journey. We ought to start at dawn, and we ought to be prepared, especially during the first fifty leagues of the way, against organized attack in case the Englishman leads us into an ambush. Yes! he might even do that, curse him! muttered Heron. He might. But it is unlikely. Still, it is best to be prepared. Take a strong escort citizen, say twenty or thirty men, picked and trained soldiers, who would make short work of civilians, however well-armed they might be. There are twenty members, including the chief, in that scarlet Pimpernel league, and I do not quite see how from this cell the prisoner could organize an ambush gate against us at a given time. Anyhow, that is a matter for you to decide. I have still to place before you a scheme which is a measure of safety for ourselves and our men against ambush, as well as against trickery, and which I feel sure you will pronounce quite adequate. Let me hear it, then. The prisoner will have to travel by coach, of course. You can travel with him, if you like, and put him in irons, and thus subvert all chances of his escaping on the road. But—and here Chauvelin made a long pause which had the effect of holding his colleague's attention still more closely—remember that we shall have his wife and one of his friends with us. Before we finally leave Paris tomorrow, we will explain to the prisoner that at the first attempt to escape on his part, at the slightest suspicion that he has tricked us for his own ends or is leading us into an ambush, at the slightest suspicion, I say, you, Citizen Heron, will order his friend first, and then Marguerite Blakeney herself, to be summarily shot before his eyes. Heron gave a long, low whistle. Instinctively he threw a furtive backward glance at the prisoner, then he raised his shifty eyes to his colleague. There was unbounded admiration expressed in them. One blaggard had met another, a greater one than himself, and was proud to acknowledge him as his master. By Lucifer, Citizen Chauvelin, he said at last, I should never have thought of such a thing myself. Chauvelin put up his hand with a gesture of self-deprecation. I certainly think that measure ought to be adequate, he said, with a gentle air of assumed modesty, unless you would prefer to arrest the woman and lodge her here, keeping her here as an hostage. No, no, said Heron with a gruff laugh. That idea does not appeal to me nearly so much as the other. I should not feel so secure on the way. I should always be thinking that that cursed woman had been allowed to escape. No, no. I would rather keep her under my own eye, just as you suggest, Citizen Chauvelin. And under the prisoners, too, he added, with a coarse jest. If he did not actually see her, he might be more ready to try and save himself at her expense. But, of course, he could not see her shot before his eyes. It is a perfect planned, Citizen, and does you infinite credit. And if the Englishman tricked us—he concluded with a fierce and savage oath, and we did not find capé at the end of the journey—I would gladly strangle his wife and his friend with my own hands. A satisfaction which I would not begrudge you, Citizen, said Chauvelin dryly. Perhaps you are right. The woman had best be kept under your own eye. The prisoner will never risk her safety on that. I would stake my life. We'll deliver our final either or the moment that she has joined our party, and before we start further on our way. Now, Citizen Heron, you have heard my advice. Are you prepared to follow it? To the last letter, replied the other. And their two hands met in a grasp of mutual understanding, two hands already indelibly stained with much innocent blood, more deeply stained now, with seventeen past days of inhumanity and miserable treachery to come. What occurred within the inner cell of the Conciergerie prison within the next half hour of that sixteenth day of Pluvius in the year two of the Republic is perhaps too well known to history to need or bear over full repetition. Chronicles intimate with the inner history of those infamous days have told us how the chief agent of the Committee of General Security gave orders one hour after midnight that hot soup, white bread, and wine be served to the prisoner, who for close on fourteen days previously had been kept on short rations of black bread and water. The sergeant in charge of the guardroom watch for the night also received strict orders that that same prisoner was on no account to be disturbed until the hour of six in the morning, when he was to be served with anything in the way of breakfast that he might fancy. All this we know, and also that Citizen Heron, having given all necessary orders for the morning's expedition, returned to the Conciergerie and found his colleague Chauvelin waiting for him in the guardroom. Well, he asked with febrile impatience, the prisoner? He seems better and stronger, replied Chauvelin. Not too well, I hope. No, no, only just well enough. You have seen him since his supper? Only from the doorway. It seems he ate and drank hardly at all, and the sergeant had some difficulty in keeping him awake until you came. Well, now for the letter, concluded Heron, with the same marked feverishness of manner which sat so curiously on his uncouth personality. Pen, ink, and paper, sergeant, he commanded. On the table in the prisoner's cell, Citizen, replied the sergeant. He preceded the two citizens across the guardroom to the doorway, and raised for them the iron bar, lowering it back after them. The next moment Heron and Chauvelin were once more face to face with their prisoner. Whether by accident or design, the lamp had been so placed that as the two men approached, its light fell full upon their faces, while that of the prisoner remained in shadow. He was leaning forward with both elbows on the table, his thin, tapering fingers towing with the pen and ink-horn which had been placed close to his hand. I trust that everything has been arranged for your comfort, Sir Percy. Chauvelin asked with a sarcastic little smile. I thank you, Sir, replied Blakeney politely. You feel refreshed, I hope. Greatly so, I assure you. But I am still damned sleepy, and if you would kindly be brief. You have not changed your mind, Sir? Quidditch Chauvelin, and a note of anxiety which he vainly tried to conceal, quivered in his voice. No, my good, Monsieur Chambordin, replied Blakeney with the same urbane courtesy. I have not changed my mind. A sigh of relief escaped the lips of both the men. The prisoner certainly had spoken in a clearer and firmer voice, but whatever renewed strength wine and food had imparted to him, he apparently did not mean to employ in renewed obstinacy. Chauvelin, after a moment's pause, resumed more calmly. You are prepared to direct us to the place where little capay lies hidden? I am prepared to do anything, Sir, to get out of his damned hole. Very well. My colleague, Citizen Heron, has arranged for an escort of twenty men picked from the best regiment of the Galdibari to accompany us, yourself, him, and me, to wherever you will direct us. Is that clear? Perfectly, Sir. You must not imagine for a moment that we, on the other hand, guarantee to give you your life and freedom, even if this expedition prove unsuccessful. I would not venture on suggesting such a wild proposition, Sir," said Blakeney placidly. Chauvelin looked keenly on him. There was something in the tone of that voice that he did not altogether like, something that reminded him of an evening at Calais, and yet again of a day at Boulogne. He could not read the expression in the eyes, so with a quick gesture he pulled the lamp forward so that its light now fell full on the face of the prisoner. Ah! that is certainly better, is it not, my dear Monsieur Chambertin," said Sir Percy, beaming on his adversary with a pleasant smile. His face, though still of the same ashen hue, looked serene if hopelessly wearied. The eyes seemed to mock, but this Chauvelin decided in himself must have been a trick of his own overraught fancy. After a brief moment's pause he resumed dryly. If, however, the expedition turns out successful in every way, if little capé without much trouble to our escort falls safe and sound into our hands, if certain contingencies which I am about to tell you all fall out as we wish, then, Sir Percy, I see no reason why the government of this country should not exercise its prerogative of mercy towards you after all. An exercise, my dear Monsieur Chambertin, which must have wearied through frequent repetition, retorted blagony with the same imperturbable smile. The contingency at present is somewhat remote. When the time comes, we'll talk this matter over. I will make no promise, and anyhow we can discuss it later. At present we are but wasting our valuable time over so trifling a matter. If you'll excuse me, sir, I am so damned fatigued. Then you will be glad to have everything settled quickly, I am sure. Exactly, sir. Heron was taking no part in the present conversation. He knew that his temper was not likely to remain within bounds, and though he had nothing but contempt for his colleague's courtly manners, yet vaguely, in his stupid, blundering way, he grudgingly admitted that may have, it was better to allow citizen Chauvelin to deal with the Englishman. There was always the danger that if his own violent temper got the better of him, he might even, at this eleventh hour, order this insolent prison to summary trial in the guillotine, and thus lose the final chance of the more important capture. He was sprawling on a chair in his usual slouching manner, with his big head sunk between his broad shoulders, his shifty, prominent eyes wandering restlessly from the face of his colleague to that of the other man. But now he gave a grunt of impatience. We are wasting time, citizen Chauvelin, he muttered. I have still a great deal to see to if we are to start at dawn. Get the damned letter written, and— the rest of the phrase was lost in an indistinct and surly murmur. Chauvelin, after a shrug of the shoulders, paid no further heed to him. He turned, bland in urbane, once more to the prisoner. I see with pleasure, Sir Percy, he said, that we thoroughly understand one another. Having had a few hours' rest, you will, I know, feel quite ready for the expedition. Will you kindly indicate to me the direction in which we will have to travel? Northwards all the way. Towards the coast? The place to which we must go is about seven leagues from the sea. Our first objective, then, will be Beauvais, Amiens, Abbeville, Cressille, and so on? Precisely. As far as the forest of Boulogne, shall we say? Where we shall come off the beaten track, and you will have to trust to my guidance. We might go there now, Sir Percy, and leave you here. You might. But you would not, then, find the child. Seven leagues is not far from the coast. He might slip through your fingers. And my colleague, Heron, being disappointed, would inevitably send you to the guillotine. Quite so, rejoined the prisoner placidly. Me thought, Sir, that we had decided that I should leave this little expedition. Surely, he added, it is not so much the dauphin whom you want as my share in this betrayal. You are right as usual, Sir Percy. Therefore let us take that as settled. We go as far as Cressille, and then splice ourselves entirely in your hands. The journey should not take more than three days, Sir. During which you will travel in a coach in the company of my friend, Heron. I could have chosen pleasanter company, Sir. Still, it will serve. This being settled, Sir Percy, I understand that you desire to communicate with one of your followers. Someone must let the others know, those who have the dauphin in their charge. Quite so. Therefore I pray you write to one of your friends that you have decided to deliver the dauphin into our hands in exchange for your own safety. You said just now that this you would not guarantee, interposed, blatantly quietly. If all turns out well, retorted chauvelin with a show of contempt, and if you will write the exact letter which I shall dictate, we might even give you that guarantee. The quality of your mercy, Sir, passes belief. Then I pray you write. Which of your followers will have the honour of the communication? My brother-in-law, Amin Saint-Jus, is still in Paris, I believe. He can let the others know. Chauvelin made no immediate reply. He paused a while, hesitating. Would Sir Percy Blakeney be ready, if his own safety demanded it, to sacrifice the man who had betrayed him? In the momentous either or that was to be put to him by and by, would he choose his own life and leave Amin Saint-Jus to perish? It was not for Chauvelin, or any matter of his stamp, to judge of what Blakeney would do under such circumstances. And had it been a question of Saint-Jus's alone, may hap Chauvelin would have hesitated still more at the present juncture. But the friend as hostage was only destined to be a minor leverage for the final breaking-up of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel through the disgrace of its chief. There was the wife, Marguerite Blakeney, sister of Saint-Jus, joint and far more important hostage, who is very close affection for her brother, might prove an additional trump card in that handful which Chauvelin already held. Blakeney paid no heed seemingly to the other's hesitation. He did not even look up at him, but quietly drew pen and paper towards him and made ready to ride. What do you wish me to say? he asked simply. Will that young blaggard answer your purpose, citizen Chauvelin? queried Heron roughly. Obviously the same doubt had crossed his mind. Chauvelin quickly reassured him. Better than any one else, he said firmly. Will you write at my dictation, Sir Percy? I am waiting to do so, my dear sir. Begin your letter as you wish, then. Now continue. And he began to dictate slowly, watching every word as it left Blakeney's pen. I cannot stand my present position any longer. Citizen Heron and also Monsieur Chauvelin—yes, Sir Percy, Chauvelin, not Chambertin—C-H-A-U-V-E-L-I-N—that is quite right—have made this prison a perfect hell for me. Sir Percy looked up from his writing, smiling. You wrong yourself, my dear Chambertin. He said, I really have been most comfortable. I wish to place the matter before your friends in as indulgent a matter as I can. Retorted Chauvelin dryly. I thank you, sir. Pray proceed. A perfect hell for me, resumed the other. Have you that? And I have been forced to give way. Tomorrow we start from here at dawn, and I will guide Citizen Heron to the place where he can find the Dofam. But the authorities demand that one of my followers, one who has once been a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpinel, shall accompany me on this expedition. I therefore ask you, or desire you, or beg you, whichever you prefer, Sir Percy. Ask you will do quite nicely. This is really very interesting, you know. To be prepared to join the expedition. We start at dawn, and you would be required to be at the main gate of the House of Justice at six o'clock precisely. I have an assurance from the authorities that your life should be inviolate, but if you refuse to accompany me, the guillotine will await me on the morrow. The guillotine will await me on the morrow. That sounds quite cheerful, does it not, Mr. Chambertin? said the prisoner, who had not evinced the slightest surprise at the wording of the letter whilst he wrote of the other's dictation. Do you know? I quite enjoyed writing this letter. It so reminded me of happy days in Boulogne. Chauvelin pressed his lips together. Truly now he felt that a retort from him would have been undignified. More especially, as just at this moment, there came from the guard room the sound of men's voices talking and laughing, the occasional clang of steel or of a heavy boot against the tiled floor, the rattling of dice, or a sudden burst of laughter. Sounds, in fact, that betoken the presence of a number of soldiers close by. Chauvelin contented himself with the nod in the direction of the guard room. The conditions are somewhat different now, he said placidly, from those that reigned in Boulogne. But will you not sign your letter, Sir Percy? With pleasure, sir, responded Blakeney, as with an elaborate flourish of the pen he appended his name to the missive. Chauvelin was watching him with eyes that would have shamed a links by their keenness. He took up the completed letter, read it through very carefully, as if to find some hidden meaning behind the very words which he himself had dictated. He studied the signature, and looked vainly for a mark or a sign that might convey a different sense to that which he had intended. Finally, finding none, he folded the letter up with his own hand, and at once slipped it into the pocket of his coat. Take care, Monsieur Chambordin, said Blakeney lightly, it will burn a hole in that elegant vest of yours. It will have no time to do that, Sir Percy, retorted Chauvelin blandly, and you will furnish me with Citizen St. Jus's present address. I will, myself, convey the letter to him at once. At this hour of the night, poor old Armand, you'll be a bed. But his address, Sir, is number thirty-two, Roud Lacroix Blanche, on the first floor, the door on your right, as you mount the stairs. You know the room well, Citizen Chauvelin, you have been in it before. And now, he added, with a loud and ostentatious yawn, shall we all to bed? We start at dawn, you said, and I am so damned fatigued. Frankly, he did not look it now. Chauvelin himself, despite his matured plans, despite all the precautions that he meant to take for the success of this gigantic scheme, felt a sudden strange sense of fear creeping into his bones. Half an hour ago, he had seen a man in what looked like the last stage of utter physical exhaustion—a hunched-up figure, listless and limp, hands that twitched nervously, the face as of a dying man. Now those outward symptoms were still there, certainly. The face by the light of the lamp still looked livid, the lips bloodless, the hands emaciated and waxed, but the eyes—they were still hollow, with heavy lids still purple, but in their depths there was a curious, mysterious light—a look that seemed to see something that was hidden to natural sight. Citizen Chauvelin thought that Heron, too, must be conscious of this, but the committee's agent was sprawling on a chair, sucking on a short-stemped pipe, and gazing with entire animal satisfaction on the prisoner. The most perfect piece of work we have ever accomplished, you and I, Citizen Chauvelin, he said complacently. You think that everything is quite satisfactory? asked the other, with anxious stress on his words. Everything, of course. Now you see to the letter. I will give final orders for tomorrow, but I shall sleep in the guardroom. And I, on that inviting bed, interpose the prisoner lightly as he rose to his feet. Your servant, citizens. He bowed his head slightly, and stood by the table whilst the two men prepared to go. Chauvelin took a final long look at the man whom he firmly believed he had at last brought down to abject disgrace. Blakeney was standing erect, watching the two retreating figures, one slender hand was on the table. Chauvelin saw that it was leaning rather heavily as if for support, and that even whilst a final mocking laugh sped him and his colleague on their way, the tall figure of the conquered lion swayed like a stalwart oak that is forced to bend to the mighty fury of an all-compelling wind. With a sigh of content, Chauvelin took his colleague by the arm, and together the two men walked out of the cell. In these days in Paris there was but one meaning that could as a rule be attached to such a summons at this hour of the night, and Armand, though possessed of an unconditional certificate of safety, sat up in bed quite convinced that for some reason which would presently be explained to him, he had once more been placed on the list of the suspect, and that his trial and condemnation on a trumped-up charge would follow in due course. Truth to tell he felt no fear at the prospect, and only a very little sorrow. The sorrow was not for himself. He regretted neither life nor happiness. Life had become hateful to him since happiness had fled with it on the dark wings of dishonour. Sorrow, such as he felt, was only for Jean. She was very young and would weep bitter tears. She would be unhappy because she truly loved him, and because this would be the first cup of bitterness which life was holding out to her. But she was very young, and sorrow would not be eternal. It was better so. He, Armand Saint-Just, though he loved with an intensity of passion that had been magnified and strengthened by his own overwhelming shame, had never really brought his beloved one single moment of unalloyed happiness. From the very first day when he sat beside her in the tiny boudoir of the Square du Roule, and the heavy footfall of Heron and his bloodhounds broke in on their first kiss, down to this hour which he believed struck his own death knell, his love for her had brought more tears to her dear eyes than smiles to her exquisite mouth. Her he had loved so dearly, that for her sweet sake he had sacrificed honour, friendship, and truth. To free her, as he believed, from the hands of impious brutes, he had done a deed that cried cane-like for vengeance to the very throne of God. For her he had sinned, and because of that sin, even before it was committed, their love had been blighted, and happiness had never been theirs. Now it was all over. He would pass out of her life, up the steps of the scaffold, tasting as he mounted them the most entire happiness that he had known since that awful day when he became a Judas. The peremptory summons, once more repeated, roused him from his meditations. He lit a candle, and without troubling to slip any of his clothes on, he crossed the narrow antechamber and opened the door that gave on the landing. In the name of the people! He had expected to hear not only those words, but also the grounding of arms and the brief command to halt. He had expected to see before him the white facings of the uniform of the Garde Paris, and to feel himself roughly pushed back unto his lodging, preparatory to the search being made of all his effects and the placing of irons on his wrists. Instead of this, it was a quiet, dry voice that said without undue harshness, in the name of the people, and instead of the uniforms, the bayonets and the scarlet caps with tricolor cockades, he was confronted by a slight, sable-clad figure, whose face, lit by the flickering light of the tallow candle, looked strangely pale and earnest. "'Citizen Chauvelin,' gasped Armand, more surprised than frightened at this unexpected apparition. "'Himself, citizen, at your service,' replied Chauvelin, with this quiet, ironical manner. "'I am the bearer of a letter for you from Sir Percy Blakene. Have I your permission to enter?' Mechanically, Armand stood aside, allowing the other man to pass in. He closed the door behind his nocturnal visitor, then, taper in hand, he preceded him into the inner room. It was the same one in which, a fortnight ago, a fighting lion had been brought to his knees. Now it lay wrapped in gloom, the feeble light of the candle only lighting Armand's face and the white frill of his shirt. The young man put the taper down on the table, and turned to his visitor. "'Shall I light the lamp?' he asked. "'Quite unnecessary,' replied Chauvelin curtly. "'I have only a letter to deliver, and after that to ask you one brief question.' From the pocket of his coat he drew the letter which Blakeney had written an hour ago. "'The prisoner wrote this in my presence,' he said, as he handed the letter over to Armand. "'Will you read it?' Armand took it from him, and sat down close to the table, leaning forward he held the paper near the light and began to read. He read the letter through very slowly to the end, then once again from the beginning. He was trying to do that which Chauvelin had wished to do an hour ago. He was trying to find the inner meaning which he felt must inevitably lie behind these words which Percy had written with his own hand. That these bare words were but a blind to try to deceive the enemy, Armand never doubted for a moment. In this he was as loyal as Marguerite would have been herself. Never for a moment did the suspicion cross his mind that Blakeney was about to play the part of a coward, but he, Armand, felt that as a faithful friend and follower he ought by instinct to know exactly what his chief intended, what he meant him to do. Swiftly his thoughts flew back to that other letter, the one which Marguerite had given him, the letter full of pity and of friendship which had brought him hope and joy and peace which he had thought at one time that he would never know again. And suddenly one sentence in that letter stood out so clearly before his eyes that it blurred the actual tangible ones on the paper which even now rustled in his hand. But if at any time you receive any other letter from me, be its contents what they may, act in accordance with the letter, but send a copy of it at once to folks or to Marguerite. Now everything seemed at once quite clear. His duty, his next actions, every word that he would speak to Chauvelin. Those that Percy had written to him were already indelibly graven on his memory. Chauvelin had waited with his usual patience, silent and imperturbable, while the young man read. Now when he saw that Armand had finished, he said quietly, Just one question, citizen, and I need not detain you longer. But first will you kindly give me back that letter? It is a precious document which will forever remain in the archives of the nation. But even while he spoke, Armand, with one of those quick intuitions that come in moments of acute crisis, had done just that which he felt Blakeney would wish him to do. He had held the letter close to the candle. A corner of the thin, crisp paper immediately caught fire, and before Chauvelin could utter a word of anger or make a movement to prevent the conflagration, the flames had licked up fully one half of the letter, and Armand had only just time to throw the remainder on the floor and to stamp out the blaze with his foot. I am sorry, citizen, he said calmly, an accident. A useless act of devotion, interposed Chauvelin, who already had smothered the oath that had risen to his lips. The scarlet Pimpernell's actions in the present matter will not lose their merited publicity through the foolish destruction of this document. I had no thought, citizen, retorted the young man, of commenting on the actions of my chief, or of trying to deny them that publicity which you seemed to desire for them almost as much as I do. More, citizen, a great deal more. The impeccable scarlet Pimpernell, the noble and gallant English gentleman, has agreed to deliver into our hands the uncrowned King of France in exchange for his own life and freedom. Me thinks that even his worst enemy would not wish for a better ending to a career of adventure and a reputation for bravery unequaled in Europe. But no more of this, time is pressing. I must help citizen Heron with his final preparations for his journey. You, of course, citizen Saint-Jus, will act in accordance with Sir Percy Blakeney's wishes. Of course, replied Armand. You will present yourself at the main entrance of the House of Justice at six o'clock this morning. I will not fail you. A coach will be provided for you. You will follow the expedition as hostage for the good faith of your chief. I quite understand. Hmm! That's brave. You have no fear, citizen Saint-Jus. Fear of what, sir? You will be a hostage in our hands, citizen. Your life a guarantee that your chief has no thought of playing us false. Now I was thinking of—of certain events which led to the arrest of Sir Percy Blakeney. Of my treachery, you mean, rejoined the young man calmly, even though his face had suddenly become as pale as death. Of the damnable lie wherewith you cheated me into selling my honour and made me what I am, a creature scarce fit to walk upon this earth. Oh! protested Chauvelin blandly. The damnable lie, continued Armand more vehemently, that hath made me one with Cain and the Ascariot. When you goaded me into the hellish act, Jean Lange was already free. Free, but not safe. A lie, man, a lie, for which you are thrice-accursed. Great God, is it not you that should have cause for fear? Me thinks where I to strangle you now I should suffer less of remorse. And would be rendering your ex-chief but a sorry service, interposed Chauvelin, with quiet irony. Sir Percy Blakeney is a dying man, citizen Saint-Jus. He'll be a dead man at dawn if I do not put in an appearance by six o'clock this morning. This is a private understanding between citizen Heron and myself. We agreed to it before I came to see you. Oh! you take care of your own miserable skin well enough. But you need not be afraid of me. I take my orders from my chief, and he has not ordered me to kill you. That was kind of him. Then we may count on you. You are not afraid? Afraid that the scarlet Pimpernel would leave me in the lurch because of the immeasurable wrong I have done to him? retorted our mind, proud and defiant in the name of his chief. No, sir, I am not afraid of that. I have spent the last fortnight in praying to God that my life might yet be given for his. Hmm! I think it most unlikely that your prayers will be granted, citizen. Prayers I imagined so very seldom are. But I don't know. I never pray myself. In your case now, I should say that you have not the slightest chance of the deity interfering in so pleasant a manner. Even were Sir Percy Blakeney prepared to wreak personal revenge on you, he would scarcely be so foolish as to risk the other life which we shall also hold as hostage for his good faith. The other life? Yes, your sister, Lady Blakeney, will also join the expedition to-morrow. This, Sir Percy, does not yet know, but it will come as a pleasant surprise for him. At the slightest suspicion of false play on Sir Percy's part, at his slightest attempt at escape, your life and that of your sister of forfeit, you will both be summarily shot before his eyes. I do not think that I need be more precise, say, citizen Sanchez. The young man was quivering with passion. A terrible loathing for himself, for his crime which had been the precursor of this terrible situation, filled his soul to the verge of sheer physical nausea. A red film gathered before his eyes, and through it he saw the grinning face of the inhuman monster who had planned this hideous, abominable thing. It seemed to him, as if in the silence and the hush of the night, above the feeble, flickering flame that threw weird shadows around, a group of devils were surrounding him and were shouting, Kill him! Kill him now! Rid the earth of this hellish brute! No doubt if Chauvelin had exhibited the slightest sign of fear, if he had moved an inch towards the door, Armand, blind with passion, driven to madness by agonizing remorse, more even than by rage, would have sprung at his enemy's throat and crushed the life out of him, as he would have out of a venomous beast. But the man's calm, his immobility, recalled Sanchez to himself. Reason, that had almost yielded to passion again, found strength to drive the enemy back this time, to whisper a warning, an admonition, even a reminder. Enough harm, God knows, had been done by tempestuous passion already, and God alone knew what terrible consequences its triumph now might bring in its trial, and striking on Armand's buzzing ears, Chauvelin's words came back as a triumphant and mocking echo. He'll be a dead man at dawn if I do not put an appearance by six o'clock. The red film lifted, the candle flickered low, the devils vanished, only the pale face of the terrorist gazed with gentle irony out of the gloom. I think that I need not detain you any longer, citizen Sanchez, he said quietly. You can get three or four hours rest yet before you need make a start, and I still have a great many things to see to. I wish you good night, citizen." Good night. Mehmed Armand mechanically. He took the candle and escorted his visitor back to the door. He waited on the landing, taper in hand, while Chauvelin descended the narrow, winding stairs. There was a light in the Concierge's lodge. No doubt the woman had struck it when the nocturnal visitor had first demanded admittance. His name and tricolour scarf of office had ensured him the full measure of her attention, and now she was evidently sitting up waiting to let him out. Saint-Roust satisfied that Chauvelin had finally gone, now turned back to his own rooms. CHAPTER 40 God help us all. He carefully locked the outer door. Then he lit the lamp, for the candle gave but a flickering light, and he had some important work to do. Firstly he picked up the charred fragment of the letter, and smoothed it out carefully and reverently as he would a relic. Chauvelin had gathered in his eyes, but he was not ashamed of them, for no one saw them. But they eased his heart, and helped his strength in his resolve. It was a mere fragment that had been spared by the flame, but Arman knew every word of the letter by heart. He had pen, ink, and paper ready to his hand, and from memory wrote out a copy of it. To this he added a covering letter from himself to Marguerite. This, which I had from Percy through the hands of Chauvelin, I neither question nor understand. He wrote the letter, and I have no thought but to obey him. In his previous letter to me, he enjoined me, if ever he wrote to me again, to obey him implicitly, and to communicate with you. To both these commands do I submit with a glad heart. But of this I must give you warning, little mother. Chauvelin desires you also to accompany us to-morrow. Percy does not know this yet, else he would never start. But those fiends fear that his readiness is a-blind, and that he has some plan in his head for his own escape at the continued safety of the Dauphan. This plan they hope to frustrate through holding you and me as hostages for his good faith. God only knows how gladly I would give my life for my chief, but your life, dear little mother, is sacred above all. I think that I do right in mourning you. God help us all." Having written the letter, he sealed it, together with the copy of Percy's letter which he had made. Then he took up the candle and went downstairs. There was no longer any light in the concierge's lodge, and Armand had some difficulty in making himself heard. At last the woman came to the door. She was tired and cross after two interruptions of her night's rest, but she had a partiality for her young lotter, whose pleasant ways and easy liberality had been like a pale ray of sunshine through the squalor of everyday misery. It is a letter, citoyen, said Armand, with earnest entreaty, for my sister. She lives in the rue de Charon, near the fortifications, and must have it within an hour. It is a matter of life and death to her, to me, and to another who is very dear to us both. The concierge threw up her hands in horror. Rue de Charon, near the fortifications, she exclaimed, and within an hour? By the holy virgin citizen, that is impossible. Who will take it? There is no way. A way must be found, citoyen, said Armand, firmly, and at once. It is not far, and there are five golden louis waiting for the messenger. Five golden louis. The poor, hard-working woman's eyes gleamed at the thought. Five louis meant food for at least two months, if one was careful, and— Give me the letter, citoyen, she said. Time to slip on a warm petticoat in a shawl, and I'll go myself. It's not fit for the boy to go at this hour. You will bring me back a line from my sister in reply to this, said Armand, whom circumstances had at last rendered cautious. Bring it up to my rooms, that I may give you the five louis in exchange." He waited while the woman slipped back into her room. He heard her speaking to her boy, the same lad who were fortnight ago, had taken the treacherous letter which had lured Blakeney to the house, into the fatal ambush gate that had been prepared for him. Everything reminded Armand of that awful night. Every hour that he had spent in the house had been wracking torture to him. Now at last he was to leave it, and on an errand which might help to ease the load of remorse from his heart. The woman was soon ready. Armand gave her final directions as to how to find the house. Then she took the letter and promised to be very quick, and to bring back a reply from the lady. Armand accompanied her to the door. The night was dark. A thin drizzle was falling. He stood and watched until the woman's rapidly walking figure was lost in the misty gloom. Then with a heavy sigh, he once more went within.