 CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH Blakeney was not at his lodgings when Armand arrived there that evening, nor did he return whilst a young man haunted the precincts of Saint-Germain-Locsroix, and wandered along the keys, hours and hours at a stretch, until he nearly dropped under the portico of a house, and realized that if he loitered longer he might lose consciousness completely, and be unable on the morrow to be of service to Jean. He dragged his weary footsteps back to his own lodgings on the heights of Montmartre. He had not found Percy. He had no news of Jean. It seemed as if hell itself could hold no worse tortures than this intolerable suspense. He threw himself down on the narrow palliasse, and tired nature asserting herself, at last fell into a heavy, dreamless torpor, like the sleep of a drunkard, deep but without the beneficent aid of rest. It was broad daylight when he awoke. The pale light of a damp, wintry morning filtered through the grimy panes of the window. Armand jumped out of bed, aching of limb but resolute of mind. There was no doubt that Percy had failed in discovering Jean's whereabouts. But where a mere friend had failed, a lover was more likely to succeed. The rough clothes which he had worn yesterday were the only ones he had. They would, of course, serve his purpose better than his own, which he had left at Plakene's lodgings yesterday. In half an hour he was dressed, looking a fairly good imitation of a labourer out of work. He went to a humble eating-house of which he knew, and there, having ordered some hot coffee with a hunk of bread, he set himself to think. It was quite a usual thing these days for relatives and friends of prisoners to go wandering about from prison to prison to find out where the loved ones happened to be detained. The prisons were over-full just now. Residents, monasteries, and public institutions had all been requisitioned by the government for the housing of the hundreds of so-called traitors who had been arrested on the barest suspicion or at the mere denunciation of an evil wisher. There were the Abbey and the Luxembourg, the erstwhile convents of the visitation and the Sacré-Cœur, the cloister of the oratorians, the Salpetrière and the Saint-Lazar hospitals, and there was, of course, the temple, and, lastly, the Conciergerie, to which those prisoners were brought whose trial would take place within the next few days, and whose condemnation was practically assured. Persons under arrest at some of the other prisons did sometimes come out of them alive, but the Conciergerie was only the anti-chamber of the guillotine. Therefore, Armand's idea was to visit the Conciergerie first. The sooner he could reassure himself that Jean was not in immediate danger, the better he would be able to endure the agony of that heart-breaking search, that knocking at every door in the hope of finding his beloved. If Jean was not in the Conciergerie, then there might be some hope that she was only being temporarily detained, and through Armand's excited brain there had already flashed the thought that may have the Committee of General Security would release her if he gave himself up. These thoughts and the making of plans fortified him mentally and physically. He even made a great effort to eat and drink, knowing that his bodily strength must endure if it was going to be of some service to Jean. He reached the Quai de l'Orloge soon after nine. The grim, irregular walls of the Châtelet and the House of Justice loomed from out the mantle of mist that lay on the river banks. Armand skirted the square clock-tower and passed through the monumental gateways of the House of Justice. He knew that his best way to the prison would be through the halls and corridors of the tribunal, to which the public had access whenever the court was sitting. The sittings began at ten, and already the usual crowd of idlers were assembling. Men and women, who apparently had no other occupation, saved to come day after day to this theatre of horrors, and watched the different acts of the heart-rending dramas that were enacted here with a kind of awful monotony. Armand mingled with the crowd that stood about the courtyard, and Anon moved slowly up the gigantic flight of stone steps, talking lightly on indifferent subjects. There was quite a goodly sprinkling of working men amongst this crowd, and Armand in his toil-stained clothes attracted no attention. Suddenly a word reached his ear, just a name, flippantly spoken by spiteful lips, and it changed the whole trend of his thoughts. Since he had risen that morning, he had thought of nothing but of Jean, and in connection with her of Percy and his vain quest of her. Now that name spoken by someone unknown brought his mind back to more definite thoughts of his chief. Capay. The name, intended as an insult, but actually merely irrelevant, whereby the uncrowned little king of France was designated by the revolutionary party. Armand suddenly recollected that to-day was Sunday the nineteenth of January. He had lost count of days and of dates lately, but the name Capay had brought everything back. The child in the temple, the conference in Blakeney's lodgings, the plans for the rescue of the boy—that was to take place to-day, Sunday the nineteenth. The seamon would be moving from the temple, at what hour Blakeney did not know, but it would be to-day, and he would be watching his opportunity. Now Armand understood everything. A great wave of bitterness swept over his soul. Percy had forgotten Jean. He was busy thinking of the child in the temple, and whilst Armand had been eating out his heart with anxiety, the scarlet pimpenel, true only to his mission, and impatient of all sentiment that interfered with his schemes, had left Jean to pay with her life for the safety of the uncrowned king. But the bitterness did not last long. On the contrary, a kind of wild exultation took its place. If Percy had forgotten, then Armand could stand by Jean alone. It was better so. He would save the loved one. It was his duty and his right to work for her sake. Never for a moment did he doubt that he could save her, that his life would be readily accepted in exchange for hers. The crowd around him was moving up the monumental steps, and Armand went with the crowd. It lacked but a few minutes to ten now. Soon the court would begin to sit. In the olden days, when he was studying for the law, Armand had often wondered about at will along the corridors of the House of Justice. He knew exactly where the different prisons were situated about the buildings, and how to reach the courtyards where the prisoners took their daily exercise. To watch those Ari Stor, who were waiting trial and death taking their recreation in these courtyards, had become one of the sites of Paris. Country cousins on a visit to the city were brought hither for entertainment. But all iron gates stood between the public and the prisoners, and a row of sentinels guarded these gates. But if one was enterprising and eager to see, one could glue one's nose against the iron work and watch the cedar-vamp aristocrats in threadbare clothes trying to cheat their horror of death by acting a farce of light-heartedness, which their one faces and tear-dimmed eyes effectually belied. All this Armand knew, and on this he counted. For a little while he joined the crowd in the sale des paperdues, and wandered idly up and down the majestic, colonnaded hall. He even, at one time, formed part of the throng that watched one of those quick tragedies that were enacted within the great chamber of the court. A number of prisoners brought in, in a batch, hurried interrogations, interrupted answers, a quick indictment, monstrous in its flaring injustice, spoken by Fouquier d'Enville, the public prosecutor, and listened to in all seriousness by men who dared to call themselves judges of their fellows. The accused had walked down the Champs-Elysées without wearing a tricolor cockade. The other had invested some savings in an English industrial enterprise, yet another had sold public funds, causing them to depreciate rather suddenly in the market. Sometimes from one of these unfortunate led thus wantonly to butchery there would come an excited protest, or from a woman's screams of agonized entreaty. But these were quickly silenced by rough blows from the butt-ends of muskets, and condemnations, wholesale sentences of death, were quickly passed amidst the cheers of the spectators, and the howls of derision from infamous jury and judge. Oh! the mockery of it all! the awful, the hideous ignominy, the blot of shame that would forever sully the historic name of France! Armand, sickened with horror, could not bear more than a few minutes of this monstrous spectacle. The same fate might even now be awaiting Jean. Along the next batch of victims to this sacrilegious butchery he might suddenly spy his beloved with her pale face and cheeks stained with her tears. He fled from the great chamber, keeping just a sufficiency of presence of mind to join a knot of idlers who were drifting leisurely towards the corridors. He followed in their wake, and soon found himself in the long galerie des prisonières. Along the flagstones of which two days ago debates had followed his guide towards the lodgings of Heron. On his left now were the arcades shut off from the courtyard beyond by heavy iron gates. Through the ironwork Armand caught sight of a number of women walking or sitting in the courtyard. He heard a man next to him explaining to his friend that these were the female prisoners who would be brought to trial that day, and he felt that his heart must burst at the thought that may have Jean would be among them. He elbowed his way cautiously to the front rank. Soon he found himself beside a sentinel who, with a good humor jest, made way for him that he might watch the Aristotle. Armand leaned against the grating, and his every sense was concentrated in that sight. At first he could scarcely distinguish one woman from another amongst the crowd that thronged the courtyard, and the close ironwork hindered his view considerably. The women looked almost like phantoms in the grey misty air, gliding slowly along with noiseless tread on the flagstones. Presently, however, his eyes, which may have been somewhat dim with tears, became more accustomed to the hazy grey light and the moving figures that looked so like shadows. He could distinguish isolated groups now, women and girls sitting together under the colonnaded arcades, some reading, others busy with trembling fingers, patching and darning a poor torn gown. Then there were others who were actually chatting and laughing together, and, oh, the pity of it, the pity and the shame, a few children shrieking with delight, were playing hide and seek in and out amongst the columns. And between them all, in and out like the children at play, unseen yet familiar to all, the specter of death, scythe and hourglass in hand, wandered, majestic and sure. Armand's very soul was in his eyes. So far he had not yet caught sight of his beloved, and slowly, very slowly, a ray of hope was filtering through the darkness of his despair. The sentinel who had stood aside for him chaffed him for his intentness. Have your sweet heart among these aristoes, citizen, he asked. You seem to be devouring them with your eyes." Armand, with his rough clothes soiled with cold dust, his face grimy and streaked with sweat, certainly looked to have but little in common with the cidevain aristoes who formed the hulk of the groups in the courtyard. He looked up. The soldier was regarding him with obvious amusement, and at sight of Armand's wild anxious eyes he gave vent to a coarse jest. Have I made a shrewd guest citizen?" he said. Is she among that lot? I do not know where she is, said Armand, almost involuntarily. Then why don't you find out, queried the soldier. The man was not speaking altogether unkindly. Armand devoured with the maddening desire to know, through the last fragment of prudence to the wind. He assumed a more careless air, trying to look as like a country bumpkin in love as he could. I would like to find out," he said, but I don't know where to inquire. My sweetheart has certainly left her home," he added likely. Some say that she has been false to me, but I think that, may have, she has been arrested. Well, then you gabby," said the soldier, good-humidly, goes straight to la Tournelle. You know where it is?" Armand knew well enough, but thought it more prudent to keep up the air of the ignorant out. "'Straight down that first corridor on your right,' explained the other, pointing in the direction which he had indicated. You will find the guichet of la Tournelle exactly opposite you. Ask the concierge for the register of female prisoners. Every free-born citizen of the Republic has the right to inspect prison registers. It is a new decree framed for safeguarding the liberty of the people. But if you do not press half a livre in the hand of the concierge," he added, speaking confidentially, you will find that the register will not be quite ready for your inspection. "'Half a livre?' exclaimed Armand, striving to play his part to the end. How can a poor devil of a labourer have half a livre to give away?" "'Well, a few sous will do in that case. A few sous will always welcome these half-times.'" Armand took the hint, and as the crowd had drifted away momentarily to a further position of the corridor, he can drive to press a few copper coins into the hand of the obliging soldier. Of course he knew his way to la Tournelle, and he would have covered the distance that separated him from the guichet there, with steps flying like the wind. But commending himself for his own prudence, he walked as slowly as he could along the interminable corridor, past the several minor courts of justice, and skirting the courtyard where the male prisoners took their exercise. At last, having struck sharply to his left and ascended a short flight of stairs, he found himself in front of the guichet, a narrow wooden box wherein the clock in charge of the prison registers sat nominally at the disposal of the citizens of this free republic. But to Armand's almost overwhelming chagran, he found the place entirely deserted. The guichet was closed down. There was not a soul in sight. The disappointment was doubly keen, coming as it did in the wake of hope that had refused to be gained, said. Armand himself did not realize how sanguine he had been until he discovered that he must wait and wait again, wait for hours, all day may have, before he could get definite news of Jean. He wandered aimlessly in the vicinity of that silent, deserted, cruel spot, where a closed, trapped door seemed to shut off all his hopes of a speedy sight of Jean. He inquired of the first sentinels whom he came across, at what hour the clock of the registers would be back at his post. The shoulders shrugged their shoulders, and could give no information. Then began Armand's aimless wanderings around La Tournelle. His fruitless inquiries, his wild, excited search for the hide-bound official who was keeping him from the knowledge of Jean. He went back to his sentinel well-wisher by the women's courtyard, but found neither consolation nor encouragement there. It is not the hour, quoi," the soldier remarked with laconic philosophy. It apparently was not the hour when the prison registers were placed at the disposal of the public. After much fruitless inquiry, Armand at last was informed by a bon bourgeois, who was wondering about the House of Justice, and who seemed to know its multifarious rules, that the prison registers all over Paris could only be consulted by the public between the hours of six and seven in the evening. There was nothing for it but to wait. Armand, whose temples were throbbing, who was foot sore, hungry, and wretched, could gain nothing by continuing his aimless wanderings through the labyrinthine building. For close upon another hour he stood with his face glued against the ironwork which separated him from the female prisoner's courtyard. Once it seemed to him as if from its further end he caught the sound of that exquisitely melodious voice which had rung forever in his ear, since that memorable evening when Jean's dainty footsteps had first crossed the path of his destiny. He strained his eyes to look in the direction whence the voice had come, but the centre of the courtyard was planted with a small garden of shrubs, and Armand could not see across it. At last, driven forth like a wandering and lost soul, he turned back and out into the streets. The air was mild and damp. The sharp thaw had persisted through the day, and a thin, misty rain was falling and converting the ill-paved roads into seas of mud. But of this Armand was wholly unconscious. He walked along the key holding his cap in his hand, so that the mild south wind should cool his burning forehead. How he contrived to kill those long, weary hours he could not afterwards have said. Once he felt very hungry, and turned almost mechanically into an eating-house, and tried to eat and drink. But most of the day he wandered through the streets restlessly, unceasingly, feeling neither chill nor fatigued. The hour before six o'clock found him on the qued l'horloge in the shadow of the great towers of the Hall of Justice, listening for the clang of the clock that would sound the hour of his deliverance from this agonising torture of suspense. He found his way to La Tornel without any hesitation. There before him was the wooden box, with its guichet open at last, and two stands upon its ledge, on which were placed two huge leather-bound books. Though our manned was nearly an hour before the appointed time, he saw when he arrived a number of people standing round the guichet. Two soldiers were there, keeping guard, enforcing the patient's long-suffering inquirers to stand in a queue, each waiting his or her turn at the books. It was a curious crowd that stood there, in single file, as if waiting at the door of the cheaper part of a theatre, men in substantial cloth-clothes, and others in ragged blouse and breeches. There were a few women, too, with black shores on their shoulders, and kerchiefs round their one, tear-stained faces. They were all silent and absorbed, submissive under the rough handling of the soldiery, humble and deferential, when anon the clerk of the registers entered his box, and prepared to place those fateful books at the disposal of those who had lost a loved one—father, brother, mother or wife—and who had come to search through those cruel pages. From inside his box, the clerk disputed every inquirer's right to consult the books. He made as many difficulties as he could, demanding the production of certificates of safety or permits from the section. He was as insolent as he dared, and Armand, from where he stood, could see that a continuous, if somewhat thin, stream of coppers flowed from the hands of the inquirers into those of the official. It was quite dark in the passage where the long queue continued to swell with amazing rapidity. Only on the ledge in front of the guichet there was a guttering tallow candle at the disposal of the inquirers. Now it was Armand's turn at last. By this time his heart was beating so strongly and so rapidly that he could not have trusted himself to speak. He fumbled in his pocket, and without unnecessary preliminaries he produced a small piece of silver and pushed it towards the clerk. Then he seized on the register marked Fum, with voracious avidity. The clerk had, with stolid indifference, pocketed the half-livre. He looked on Armand over a pair of large, bone-rimmed spectacles, with the air of an old hawk that sees a helpless bird, and yet is too satiated to eat. He was apparently vastly amused at Armand's trembling hands and the clumsy, aimless way with which he fingered the book and held up the tallow candle. "'What date?' he asked curtly in a piping voice. "'What date?' reiterated Armand vaguely. "'What day and hour was she arrested?' said the man, thrusting his beak-like nose closer to Armand's face. Evidently the piece of silver had done its work well. He meant to be helpful to this country loud. "'On Friday evening,' murmured the young man. The clerk's hands did not in character gainsay the rest of his appearance. They were long and thin, with nails that resembled the talons of a hawk. Armand watched them fascinated as from above they turned over rapidly the pages of the book. Then one long, grimy finger pointed to a row of names down a column. "'If she is here,' said the man, curtly, "'her name should be amongst these.' Armand's vision was blurred. He could scarcely see. The row of names was dancing a wild dance in front of his eyes. Perspiration stood out on his forehead, and his breath came in quick, sturtious gasps. He never knew afterwards whether he actually saw Jean's name there in the book, or whether his fevered brain was playing his aching senses a cruel and mocking trick. Certain it is that suddenly amongst a row of indifferent names hers suddenly stood clearly on the page, and to him it seemed as if the letters were written out in blood. And just below the other entry. He saw nothing more, for suddenly it seemed to him as if someone held a vivid scarlet veil in front of his eyes, whilst a hundred claw-like hands were tearing at his heart and at his throat. Clear out now! It is my turn. What? Are you going to stand there all night?" A rough voice seemed to be speaking these words. Rough hands apparently were pushing him out of the way, and someone snatched the candle out of his hand. But nothing was real. He stumbled over a corner of a loose flagstone, and would have fallen, but some things seemed to catch hold of him, and to lead him away for a little distance, until a breath of cold air blew upon his face. This brought him back to his senses. Jean was a prisoner in the temple. Then his place was in the prison of the temple, too. It could not be very difficult to run one's head into the noose that caught so many next these days. A few cries of Vive le Roi or Abba la République, and more than one prison-door would gape invitingly to receive another guest. The hot blood had rushed into Aman's head. He did not see clearly before him, nor did he hear distinctly. There was a buzzing in his ears as of myriads of mocking bird's wings, and there was a veil in front of his eyes, a veil through which he saw faces and forms flitting ghost-like in the gloom, men and women jostling or being jostled, soldiers, sentinels, then long, interminable corridors, more crowd and more soldiers, winding stairs, courtyards and gates, finally the open street, the quay, and the river beyond. An incessant hammering went on in his temples, and that veil never lifted from before his eyes. Now it was lurid and red, as if stained with blood, and on it was white, like a shroud, but it was always there. Through it he saw the Pont-au-Change, which he crossed, then far down on the Quai de l'Ecole, to the left of the corner house behind Saint-Germain-L'Oxrois where Blakeney lodged—Blakeney, who for the sake of a stranger had forgotten all about his comrade and gian. Through it he saw the network of streets which separated him from the neighborhood of the temple, the gardens of ruined habitations, the closely shuttered and barred windows of ducal houses, then the mean streets, the crowded drinking bars, the tumbledown shops with their dilapidated awnings. He saw with eyes that did not see, heard the tumult of daily life round him with ears that did not hear. Jean was in the temple prison, and when its grim gates closed finally for the night, he, Armand, her Chevalier, her lover, her defender, would be within its walls, as near to cell number twenty-nine as bribery and treaty promises would help him to attain. Ah! there at last loomed the great building. The pointed bastions cut through the surrounding gloom as with a sable knife. Armand reached the gate. The sentinels challenged him. He replied, Vive le roi! shouting wildly like one who is drunk. He was hatless, and his clothes were saturated with moisture. He tried to pass, but crossed bayonets barred the way. Still he shouted, Vive le roi! and Abba la République! Allons! The fellow is drunk, said one of the soldiers. Armand fought like a madman. He wanted to reach that gate. He shouted, he laughed, and he cried, until one of the soldiers in a fit of rage struck him heavily on the head. Armand fell backwards, stunned by the blow. His foot slipped on the wet pavement. Was he indeed drunk, or was he dreaming? He put his hand up to his forehead. It was wet, but whether with the rain or with blood he did not know. But for the space of one second he tried to collect his scattered wits. Citizen Saint-Juste! said a quiet voice at his elbow. Then as he looked round, dazed, feeling a firm, pleasant grip on his arm, the same quiet voice continued calmly. Perhaps you do not remember me, Citizen Saint-Juste. I had not the honour of the same close friendship with you as I had with your charming sister. My name is Chauvelin. Can I be of any service to you? End of CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII of El Dorado by Baron S.O.Z., read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage in July 2007. CHAPTER XVII CHAUVELIN CHAUVELIN! The presence of this man here at this moment made the events of the past few days seem more absolutely like a dream. CHAUVELIN! The most deadly enemy he, Armand, and his sister Marguerite, had in the world. CHAUVELIN! The evil genius that presided over the secret service of the Republic. CHAUVELIN! The aristocrat turned revolutionary. The diplomat turned spy. The baffled enemy of the scarlet Pimpanel. He stood there vaguely outlined in the gloom by the feeble rays of an oil lamp fixed into the wall just above. The moisture on his sable clothes glistened in the flickering light like a thin veil of crystal. It clung to the rim of his hat, to the folds of his cloak. The ruffles at his throat and wrist hung limp and soiled. He had released Armand's arm, and held his hands now underneath his cloak. His pale, deep-set eyes rested gravely on the younger man's face. I had an idea, somehow, continued Chauvelin calmly, that you and I would meet during your sojourn in Paris. I heard from my friend Heron that you had been in the city. He, unfortunately, lost your track almost as soon as he had found it, and I, too, had begun to fear that our mutual and ever enigmatical friend, the scarlet Pimpanel, had spirited you away, which would have been a great disappointment to me. Now he once more took hold of Armand by the elbow, but quite gently, more like a comrade who was glad to have met another, and is preparing to enjoy a pleasant conversation for a while. He led the way back to the gate, the sentinel saluting at sight of the tricolour scarf which was visible underneath his cloak. Under the stone rampart Chauvelin paused. It was quiet and private here. The group of soldiers stood at the further end of the archway, but they were out of hearing, and their forms were only vaguely discernible in the surrounding darkness. Armand had followed his enemy mechanically, like one bewitched and irresponsible for his actions. When Chauvelin paused he, too, stood still, not because of the grip on his arm, but because of that curious numbing of his will. They confused thoughts were floating through his brain, the most dominant one among them, being that fate had effectually ordained everything for the best. Here was Chauvelin, a man who hated him, who, of course, would wish to see him dead. While surely it must be an easier matter now to barter his own life for that agent. She had only been arrested on suspicion of harboring him, who was a known traitor to the Republic. Then, with his capture and speedy death, her supposed guilt would he hoped. Be forgiven. These people could have no ill will against her, and actors and actresses were always leniently dealt with when possible. Then surely, surely he could serve Jean Best by his own arrest and condemnation, than by working to rescue her from prison. In the meanwhile Chauvelin shook the damp from off his cloak, talking all the while in his own peculiar, gently ironical manner. Lady Blakeney, he was saying, I hope that she is well. I thank you, sir, murmured Armand mechanically. And my dear friend, Sir Percy Blakeney, I had hoped to meet him in Paris. Ah, but no doubt he has been very busy. But I live in hopes. I live in hopes. See how kindly chance has treated me, he continued in the same bland and mocking tones. I was taking a stroll in these parts, scarce hoping to meet a friend, when passing the poston gate of this charming hostelry, whom should I see but my amiable friend Saint-Jus, striving to gain admission? But la! Here am I, talking of myself, and I am not reassured as to your state of health. You felt faint just now, did you not? The air about this building is very dank and close. I hope you feel better now. Command me, pray, if I can be of service to you in any way." Whilst Chauvelin talked, he had drawn Armand after him into the lodge of the concierge. The young man now made a great effort to pull himself vigorously together and to steady his nerves. He had his wish. He was inside the temple prison now, not far from Jean, and though his enemy was older and less vigorous than himself, and the door of the concierge's lodge stood wide open, he knew that he was indeed as effectually a prisoner already, as if the door of one of the numerous cells in this gigantic building had been bolted and barred upon him. This knowledge helped him to recover his complete presence of mind. No thought of fighting or trying to escape his fate entered his head for a moment. It had been useless, probably, and undoubtedly it was better so. If he could only see Jean and assure himself that she would be safe in consequence of his own arrest, then, indeed, life could hold no greater happiness for him. Above all now he wanted to be cool and calculating, to curb the excitement which the Latin blood in him called forth at every mention of the loved one's name. He tried to think of Percy, of his calmness, his easy banter with an enemy. He resolved to act as Percy would act under these circumstances. Firstly he steadied his voice, and drew his well-knit, slim figure upright. He called to mind all his friends in England, with their rigid manners, their impassiveness in the face of trying situations. There was Lord Tony, for instance, always ready with some boyish joke, with boyish impertinence always hovering on his tongue. Armand tried to emulate Lord Tony's manner, and to borrow something of Percy's calm impudence. Citizen Chauvelin, he said, as soon as he felt quite sure of the steadiness of his voice and the calmness of his manner, I wonder if you are quite certain that that light grip which you have on my arm is sufficient to keep me here walking quietly by your side, instead of knocking you down, as I certainly feel inclined to do, for I am a younger, more vigorous man than you." "'Hm,' said Chauvelin, who made pretence to ponder over this difficult problem. Like you, Citizen Sangeuse, I wonder. It could be easily done, you know." "'Fairly easily,' rejoined the other. But there is the guard. It is numerous and strong in this building, and the gloom would help me. It is dark in the corridors, and a desperate man takes risks, remember? Quite so. And you, Citizen Sangeuse, are a desperate man, just now. My sister Marguerite is not here, Citizen Chauvelin. You cannot barter my life for that of your enemy. No, no, no, rejoined Chauvelin, blandly. Not for that of my enemy, I know, but—' Armand courted his words like a drowning man at a reed. For hers,' he exclaimed. "'For hers?' queried the other with obvious puzzlement. Mademoiselle Lange, continued Armand, with all the egoistic ardour of the lover who believes that the attention of the entire world is concentrated upon his beloved. Mademoiselle Lange, you will set her free now that I am in your power.' Chauvelin smiled, his usual suave and ehmatical smile. "'Ah, yes,' he said. Mademoiselle Lange, I had forgotten. Forgotten, man? Forgotten that those murderous dogs have arrested her? The best, the purest, this vile, degraded country has ever produced? She sheltered me one day just for an hour. I am a traitor to the Republic. I own it. I'll make full confession. But she knew nothing of this. I deceived her. She is quite innocent, you understand? I'll make full confession, but you must set her free.' He had gradually worked himself up again to a state of feverish excitement. Through the darkness which hung about in this small room, he tried to peer into Chauvelin's impassive face. "'Easy, easy, my young friend,' said the other placidly. You seem to imagine that I have something to do with the arrest of the lady in whom you take so deep an interest. You forget that now I am but a discredited servant of the Republic whom I fail to serve in her need. My life is only granted me out of pity for my efforts which were genuine, if not successful. I have no power to set anyone free. Or to arrest me now, in that case,' retorted Armand. Chauvelin paused a moment before he replied with a deprecating smile. "'Only to denounce you, perhaps. I am still an agent of the Committee of General Security.' "'Then all is for the best,' exclaimed Saint-Jusse eagerly. "'You shall denounce me to the Committee. They will be glad of my arrest, I assure you. I have been a marked man for some time. I had intended to evade arrest and to work for the rescuer of Mademoiselle-Lange, but I will give up all thought of that. I will deliver myself into your hands absolutely. Nay more! I will give you my most solemn word of honour, that not only will I make no attempt at escape, but that I will not allow anyone to help me to do so. I will be a passive and willing prisoner, if you, on the other hand, will affect Mademoiselle-Lange's release.' "'Mused Chauvelin again? It sounds feasible.' "'It does, it does,' rejoined Armand, whose excitement was at fever-pitch. My arrest, my condemnation, my death, will be a vast deal more important to you than that of a young and innocent girl against whom unlikely charges would have to be tricked up and whose acquittal may have public feeling my demand. As for me, I shall be an easy prey. My known counter-revolutionary principles, my sister's marriage with a foreigner—' Your connection with the scarlet Pimpernel,' suggested Chauvelin blandly, "'Quite so. I should not defend myself. And your enigmatical friend would not attempt your rescue.'" "'C'est entendu,' said Chauvelin, with his wanted blandness. "'Then, my dear infusiastic young friend, shall we adjourn to the office of my colleagues, citizen Heron, who is chief agent of the Committee of General Security, and will receive your—did you say—confession, and note the conditions under which you place yourself absolutely in the hands of the public prosecutor, and subsequently of the executioner? Is that it?' Armand was too full of schemes, too full of thoughts of genre to note the tone of quiet irony with which Chauvelin had been speaking all along. With the unreasoning egoism of youth, he was quite convinced that his own arrest, his own affairs, were as important to this entire nation in revolution as they were to himself. At moments like these it is difficult to envisage a desperate situation clearly, and to a young man in love, the fate of the beloved, never seems desperate whilst he himself is alive and ready for every sacrifice for her sake. My life, for hers, is the sublime, if often foolish, battle cry that has so often resulted in wholesale destruction. Armand at this moment, when he fondly believed that he was making a bargain with the most astute, most unscrupulous spy this revolutionary government had in its pay, Armand just then had absolutely forgotten his chief, his friends, the League of Mercy, and help to which he belonged. Armand and the spirit of self-sacrifice were carrying him away. He watched his enemy with glowing eyes as one who looks on the arbiter of his fate. Chauvelin, without another word, beckoned to him to follow. He led the way out of the lodge, then turning sharply to his left, he reached the wide quadrangle with the covered passage running right round it, the same which debates it traversed two evenings ago when he went to visit Heron. Armand, with a light heart and a springy step, followed him as if he were going to a feast where he would meet Jean, where he would kneel at her feet, kiss her hands, and lead her triumphantly to freedom and to happiness. CHAPTER XVIII. THE REMOVAL Chauvelin no longer made any pretense to hold Armand by the arm. By temperament as well as by profession as by, there was one subject at least which he had mastered thoroughly. That was the study of human nature. Though occasionally an exceptionally complex mental organisation baffled him, as in the case of Supercy Blakeney, he prided himself, and justly, too, on reading natures like that of Armand Saint-Jus, as he would in open book. The excitable disposition of the Latin races he knew out and out. He knew exactly how far a sentimental situation would lead a young Frenchman like Armand, who was, by disposition, chivalrous, and by temperament, essentially passionate. Above all things, he knew when and how far he could trust a man to do either a sublime action or an essentially foolish one. Therefore he walked along contentedly now, not even looking back to see whether Saint-Jus was following him. He knew that he did. His thoughts only dwelt on the young enthusiast. In his mind he called him the young fool, in order to weigh in the balance the mighty possibilities that would accrue from the present sequence of events. The fixed idea, ever working in the man's scheming brain, had already transformed a vague belief into a certainty that the scarlet pimpinel was in Paris at the present moment, Chauve-lain had now become convinced. How far he could turn the capture of Armand Saint-Jus to the triumph of his own ends remained to be seen. But this he did know. The scarlet pimpinel, the man whom he had learned to know, to dread, and even in a grudging manner to admire, was not liked to leave one of his followers in the lurch. Marguerite's brother in the temple would be the surest decoy for the elusive meddler who still, and in spite of all care and precaution, continued to baffle the army of spies set upon his track. Chauve-lain could hear Armand's light elastic footsteps resounding behind him on the flagstones. A world of intoxicating possibilities surged up before him. Ambition, which two successive dire failures had atrophied in his breast, once more rose up buoyant and hopeful. Once he had sworn to lay the scarlet pimpinel by the heels, and that oath was not yet wholly forgotten. It had lain dormant after the catastrophe of Boulogne. But with the sight of Armand Saint-Jus, it had reawakened and confronted him again with the strength of a likely fulfillment. The courtyard looked gloomy and deserted. The thin drizzle which still fell from a persistently leadened sky effectually held every outline of masonry, of column, or of gate, hidden as beneath a shroud. The corridor which skirted it all round was ill-lighted, saved by an occasional oil-lamp fixed in the wall. But Chauve-lain knew his way well. Heron's lodgings gave on the second courtyard, the Square du Nazaré, and the way Viver led past the main square tower, in the top floor of which the uncrowned king of France eeked out his miserable existence as the plaything of a rough cobbler and his wife. Just beneath its frowning bastions, Chauve-lain turned back towards Armand. He pointed with a careless hand upwards to the central tower. We have got little capé in there," he said, dryly. Your chivalrous scarlet pimpinel has not ventured in these precincts yet, you see. Armand was silent. He had no difficulty in looking unconcerned. His thoughts were so full of Jean that he cared but little at this moment for any bourbon king or for the destinies of France. Now the two men reached the poston gate. A couple of sentinels were standing by, but the gate itself was open, and from within there came the sound of bustle and of noise, of a good deal of swearing, and also of loud laughter. The guard room gave on the left of the gate, and the laughter came from there. It was brilliantly lighted, and Armand, peering in in the wake of Chauve-lain, could see groups of soldiers sitting and standing about. There was a table in the centre of the room, and on it a number of jugs and pewter mugs, packets of cards, and overturned boxes of dice. But the bustle did not come from the guard room. It came from the landing in the stone stairs beyond. Chauve-lain, apparently curious, had passed through the gate, and Armand followed him. The light from the open door of the guard room cut sharply across the landing, making the gloom beyond appear more dense and almost solid. Out the darkness, fitfully intersected by a lantern, apparently carried to and fro, moving figures loomed out ghost-like and weirdly gigantic. Soon Armand distinguished a number of large objects that encumbered the landing, and as he and Chauve-lain left the sharp light of the guard room behind them, he could see that the large objects were pieces of furniture of every shape and size. A wooden bedstead dismantled, leaned against the wall, a black horsehair sofa blocked the way to the tower's stairs, and there were numberless chairs in several tables piled one on top of the other. In the midst of this litter, a stout, flabby-cheeked man stood, apparently giving directions as to its removal to persons at present unseen. —Hola, papasimon! exclaimed Chauve-lain jovially. Moving out to-day what? —Yes, thank the Lord, if there be a Lord, retorted the other curtly. Is that you, citizen Chauve-lain? —In person, citizen. I did not know you were leaving quite so soon. Is citizen Heron anywhere about? —Just left, replied Simon. He had a last look at Capay just before my wife locked the brat up in the inner room. Now he's gone back to his lodgings. A man carrying a chest, empty of its drawers, on his back, now came stumbling down the tower's staircase. Madame Simon followed close on his heels, steadying the chest with one hand. —We had better begin to load up the cart, she called to her husband in a high-pitched querulous voice. The corridor is getting too much encumbered. She looked suspiciously at Chauve-lain and at Armand, and when she encountered the former's bland, unconcerned gaze, she suddenly shivered and drew her black shawl close around her shoulders. —Bah! she said. I shall be glad to get out of this Godforsaken hole. I hate the very sight of these walls. —Indeed, the citizeness does not look over-robust in health, said Chauve-lain, with studied politeness. The stay in the tower did not may have bring forth all the fruits of prosperity which she had anticipated. The woman eyed him with dark suspicion lurking in her hollow eyes. —I don't know what you mean, citizen," she said, with a shrug of her wide shoulders. —Oh! I meant nothing, rejoined Chauve-lain's smiling. I am so interested in your removal. Busy man as I am, it has amused me to watch you. —Whom have you got to help you with the furniture? Dupont! The man of all work from the concierge, said Simon Curtley. Citizen Heron would not allow any one to come in from the outside. —Rightly, too. Have the new commissaries come yet? See Citizen Cauchfer, he is waiting upstairs for the others. —And Cape? —He is all safe. Citizen Heron came to see him, and then he told me to lock the little vermin up in the inner room. Citizen Cauchfer had just arrived by that time, and he has remained in charge. —During all this while, the man with the chest on his back was waiting for orders. Bent nearly double, he was grumbling audibly at his uncomfortable position. —Does the citizen want to break my back? —He muttered. —We had best get along, quoi? —He asked if he should begin to carry the furniture out into the street. —Two sews have I got to pay every ten minutes to the lad who holds my nag," he said, muttering under his breath. —We shall be all night at this rate. —Begin to load, then, commanded Simon, gruffly. Here, begin with this sofa. —You'll have to give me a hand with that," said the man. —Wait a bit. I'll just see that everything is all right in the cart. I'll be back directly. —Take something with you, then, as you are going down," said Madame Simon in her quarrelous voice. The man picked up a basket of linen that stood in the angle by the door. He hoisted it on his back and shuffled away with it across the landing and out through the gate. —How did Capay like parting from his papay-maman?" asked Chauvelin with a laugh. —Hm! growl, Simon, laconically. It will find out soon enough how well off he was under our care. —Have the other commissaries come yet? —No, but they will be here directly. Citizen Couchfaire is upstairs, mounting-guarder for Capay. —Well, good-bye, papa Simon, concluded Chauvelin jovially, citizeness, your servant. He bowed with unconcealed irony to the cobbler's wife, and nodded to Simon, who expressed by a volley of motley oaths his exact feelings with regards to all the agents of the Committee of General Security. —Six months of this penal servitude have we had, he said, roughly, and no thanks or pension. I would as soon serve a si devant arresto as your accursed committee. The man du pont had returned. Stolidly, after the fashion of his kind, he commenced the removal of citizen Simon's goods. He seemed a clumsy enough creature, and Simon and his wife had to do most of the work themselves. Chauvelin watched the moving forms for a while, then he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh of indifference, and turned on his heel. CHAPTER 19 It is about the Dauphin. Heron was not at his lodgings when, at last, after vigorous pulls of the bell, a great deal of waiting and much cursing, Chauvelin, closely followed by Armand, was introduced in the Chief Agent's office. The soldier who acted as servant said that citizen Heron had gone out to sup, but would surely be home again by eight o'clock. Armand by this time was so dazed with fatigue that he sank on a chair like a log, and remained there, staring into the fire, unconscious of the flight of time. Anon Heron came home. He nodded to Chauvelin, and threw but a cursory glance on Armand. Five minutes, citizen, he said, with a rough attempt at an apology. I am sorry to keep you waiting, but the new commissaries have arrived, who are to take charge of Capay. The seamal have just gone, and I want to assure myself that everything is all right in the tower. Cosh Faire has been in charge, but I like to cast an eye over the brat every day myself. He went out again, slamming the door behind him. His heavy footsteps were heard treading the flagstones of the corridor, and gradually dying away in the distance. Armand had paid no heed either to his entrance or to his exit. He was only conscious of an intense weariness, and would at this moment gladly have laid his head on the scaffold, if on it he could find rest. A white-faced clock on the wall ticked off the seconds one by one. From the street below came the muffled sounds of wheeled traffic on the soft mud of the road. It was raining more heavily now, and from time to time a gust of wind rattled the small windows in the dilapidated frames, or hurled a shower of heavy drops against the panes. The heat from the stove had made Armand drowsy. His head fell forward on his chest. Of long, with his hands held behind his back, paced ceaselessly up and down the narrow room. Suddenly Armand started, wide awake now. Hurried footsteps on the flagstones outside, a horse shout, a banging of heavy doors, and the next moment Heron stood once more on the threshold of the room. Armand, with wide-opened eyes, gazed on him in wonder. The whole appearance of the man had changed. He looked ten years older, with lanked, dishevelled hair hanging matted over a moist forehead. The cheeks ashen white, the full lips bloodless and hanging, flabby and parted, dispelling both rows of yellow teeth that shook against each other. The whole figure looked bowed, as if shrunk within itself. Chauvelin had paused in his restless walk. He gazed on his colleague, a frown of puzzlement on his pale, set face. « Capet! » he exclaimed, as soon as he had taken in every detail of Heron's altered appearance, and seen the look of wild terror that literally distorted his face. Heron could not speak. His teeth were chattering in his mouth, and his tongue seemed paralyzed. Chauvelin went up to him. He was several inches shorter than his colleague, but at this moment he seemed to be towering over him like an avenging spirit. He placed a firm hand on the other's bowed shoulders. « Capet is gone! Is that it?» he queried, peremptorily. The look of terror increased in Heron's eyes, giving its mute reply. « How? When? » But for the moment the man was speechless. An almost maniacal fear seemed to hold him in its grip. With an impatient oaf, Chauvelin turned away from him. « Brandy!» he said, curtly speaking to Armand. A bottle and glass were found in the cupboard. It was Saint-Jus who poured out the brandy and held it to Heron's lips. Chauvelin was once more pacing up and down the room in angry impatience. « Pull yourself together, man! » he said roughly after a while, and try and tell me what has occurred. Heron had sunk into a chair. He passed a trembling hand once or twice over his forehead. « Capet has disappeared!» he murmured. He must have been spirited away while the cimons were moving their furniture. That accursed couche-faire was completely taken in. Heron spoke in a toneless voice, hardly above a whisper, and like one whose throat is dry and mouth parched. But the brandy had revived him somewhat, and his eyes lost their former glassy look. « How?» asked Chauvelin curtly. I was just leaving the tower when he arrived. I spoke to him at the door. I had seen Capet safely installed in the room, and gave orders to the woman cimons to let citizen couche-faire have a look at him too, and then to lock up the brat in the inner room and install couche-faire in the ante-chamber on guard. I stood talking to couche-faire for a few moments in the ante-chamber. The woman cimons, and the man of all work, Dupont, whom I know well, were busy with the furniture. There could not have been any one else concealed about the place, that I'll swear. Couch-faire, after he took leave of me, went straight into the room. He found the woman cimons in the act of turning the key in the door of the inner chamber. I have locked Capet in there, she said, giving the key to couche-faire. He will be quite safe until to-night, when the other commissaries come. Didn't couche-faire go into the room and ascertain whether the woman was lying? Yes, he did. He made the woman reopen the door, and peeped in over her shoulder. She said the child was asleep. He vows that he saw the child lying fully dressed on a rug in the further corner of the room. The room, of course, was quite empty of furniture, and only lighted by one candle, but there was the rug and the child asleep on it. Couch-faire swears he saw him, and now, when I went up—well? The commissaries were all there—couch-faire, and lasnière, l'orinée, and le grain. We went into the inner room, and I had a candle in my hand. We saw the child lying on the rug, just as couche-faire had seen him, and for a while we took no notice of it. Then some one—I think it was l'orinée—went to have a closer look at the brat. He took up the candle and went to the rug. Then he gave a cry, and we all gathered round him. The sleeping child was only a bundle of hair and of clothes—a dummy wot! There was silence now in the narrow room, while the white-faced clock continued to tick off each succeeding second of time. Armand had once more buried his head in his hands. A trembling, like an attack of ague, shook his wide, bony shoulders. Armand had listened to the narrative with glowing eyes and a beating heart. The details which the two terrorists here could not probably understand, he had already added to the picture which his mind had conjured up. He was back in thought now, in the small lodging in the rear of Saint-Germain-Locsroix. Sir Andrew Folks was there, and my Lord Tony and Hastings, and a man was striding up and down the room, looking out into the great space beyond the river, with the eyes of a seer, and a firm voice said abruptly, It is about the Dauphin. Have you any suspicions? asked Chauvelin now, pausing in his walk beside Heron, and once more placing a firm, peremptory hand on his colleague's shoulder. Suspicions! exclaimed the chief agent with a loud oath. Suspicions! Certainties you mean! The man sat here but two days ago, in that very chair, and bragged of what he would do. He told him, then, that if he interfered with Cape, I would wring his neck with my own hands. And his long, talon-like fingers, with their sharp, grimy nails, closed and unclosed, like those of feline creatures, when they hold the coveted prey. Of whom do you speak? queried Chauvelin-Curtley. Of whom? Of whom! But that accursed debats! His pockets are bulging with Austrian money, with which, no doubt, he has bribed the Simon, and Koschfer, and the Sentinels, and Lorrainez, and Lassniere, and you, interposed Chauvelin-Dreiley. It is false!" roared Heron, who already, at the suggestion, was foaming at the mouth, and had jumped up from his chair, standing at bay, as if prepared to fight for his life. False, is it, retorted Chauvelin calmly. Then be not so quick, friend Heron, in slashing out with senseless denunciations right and left. You'll gain nothing by denouncing any one just now. This is too intricate a matter to be dealt with with a sledgehammer. Is any one up in the tower at this moment?" he asked, in quiet, business-like tones. Yes. Koschfer and the others are still there. They are making wild schemes to cover their treachery. Koschfer is aware of his own danger, and Lassniere and the others know that they arrived at the tower several hours too late. They are all at fault, and they know it. As for that debats, he continued with a voice rendered rockus with bitter passion. I swore to him two days ago that he should not escape me if he meddled with capé. I'm on his track already. I'll have him before the hour of midnight, and I'll torture him. Yes, I'll torture him. The tribunal shall give me leave. We have a dark cell down below here where my men know how to apply tortures worse than the rack, where they know just how to prolong life long enough to make it unendurable. I'll torture him. I'll torture him." But Chauvelin abruptly silenced the wretch with a curt command. Then without another word, he walked straight out of the room. In thought, Armand followed him. The wild desire was suddenly born in him to run away at this moment, while Heron, wrapped in his own immeditations, was paying no heed to him. Chauvelin's footsteps had long ago died away in the distance. It was a long way to the upper floor of the tower, and some time would be spent too in interrogating the commissaries. This was Armand's opportunity. After all, if he were free himself he might more effectively help rescue Jean. He knew too now where to join his leader—the corner of the street by the canal, where Sir Andrew Folks would be waiting with the coal-cart. Then there was the spinny on the road to Saint-Germain. Armand hoped that, with good luck, he might yet overtake his comrades, tell them of Jean's plight, and entreat them to work for her rescue. He had forgotten that now he had no certificate of safety, that undoubtedly he would be stopped at the gates at this hour of the night, that his conduct proving suspect he would in all probability be detained and may have be brought back to this self-same place within an hour. He had forgotten all that, for the primeval instinct for freedom had suddenly been aroused. He rose softly from his chair and crossed the room. Heron paid no attention to him. Now he had traversed the antechamber and unlatched the outer door. Immediately a couple of bayonets were crossed in front of him. Two more further on ahead scintillated feebly in the flickering light. Chauvelin had taken his precautions. There was no doubt that Armand Saint-Gust was effectually a prisoner now. With a sigh of disappointment he went back to his place beside the fire. Heron had not even moved whilst he had made this futile attempt at escape. Five minutes later Chauvelin re-entered the room. CHAPTER XX The Certificate of Safety You can leave debats and his gang alone, citizen Heron, said Chauvelin, as soon as he had closed the door behind him. He had nothing to do with the escape of the Dauphin. Heron growled out a few words of incredulity, but Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders and looked with unutterable contempt on his colleague. Armand, who was watching him closely, saw that in his hand he held a small piece of paper which he had crushed into a shapeless mass. "'Do not waste your time, citizen,' he said, enraging against an empty wind-bag. "'Arrest debats, if you like, or leave him alone, and you please. We have nothing to fear from that, braggart.' With nervous, slightly shaking fingers, he set to work to smooth out the scrap of paper which he held. With his hot hands it soiled it and pounded it, until it was a mere rag, and the writing on it illegible. But such as it was, he threw it down with a blasphemous oaf on the desk in front of Heron's eyes. "'It is that a cursed Englishman who has been at work again,' he said more calmly. "'I guessed at the moment I heard your story. Said your whole army of sleuth-hounds on his track, citizen. You'll need them all.' Heron picked up the scrap of torn paper and tried to decipher the writing on it by the light from the lamp. He seemed almost dazed now with the awful catastrophe that had befallen him, and the fear that his own wretched life would have to pay the penalty for the disappearance of the child. As for Armand, even in the midst of his own troubles and of his own anxiety for Jean, he felt a proud exaltation in his heart. The scarlet pimpanel had succeeded. Percy had not failed in his self-imposed undertaking. Chauvelin, whose piercing eyes were fixed on him at that moment, smiled with contemptuous irony. "'As you will find your hands over-full for the next few hours, citizen Heron,' he said, speaking to his colleague and nodding in the direction of Armand, "'I'll not trouble you with the voluntary confession this young citizen desired to make to you. All I need tell you is that he is an adherent of the scarlet pimpanel. I believe one of his most faithful, most trusted officers.' Heron roused himself from the maze of gloomy thoughts that were again paralyzing his tongue. He turned bleary, wild eyes on Armand. "'We've got one of them, then,' he murmured incoherently, babbling like a drunken man. "'Mmm, yes,' replied Chauvelin, lightly, "'but it is too late now for a formal denunciation and arrest. "'He cannot leave Paris, anyhow, and all that your men need to do is to keep a close look out on him. But I should send him home to-night, if I were you.' Then muttered something more which, however, Armand did not understand. Chauvelin's words were still ringing in his ear. Was he, then, to be set free to-night? Free in a measure, of course, since spies were to be set to watch him, but free nevertheless. He could not understand Chauvelin's attitude, and his own self-love was not a little wounded at the thought that he was of such little account that these men could afford to give him even this provisional freedom. And, of course, there was still Jean. "'I must therefore bid you good-night, citizen,' Chauvelin was saying, in his bland, gently ironical manner. "'You will be glad to return to your lodgings. As you see, the chief agent of the Committee of General Security is too much occupied just now to accept the sacrifice of your life, which you were prepared so generously to offer him.' "'I do not understand you, citizen,' retorted Armand, coldly, "'nor do I desire indulgence at your hands. You have arrested an innocent woman on the trumped-up charge that she was harboring me. I came here to-night to give myself up to justice, so that she might be set free.' "'But the hour is somewhat late, citizen,' rejoined Chauvelin, urbeignly. "'The lady in whom you take so fervent an interest is no doubt asleep in her cell at this hour. It would not be fitting to disturb her now. She might not find shelter before morning, and the weather is quite exceptionally unpropitious.' "'Then, sir,' said Armand, a little bewildered, "'am I to understand that if I hold myself at your disposition Mademoiselle Lange will be set free as early to-morrow morning as may be?' "'No doubt, sir, no doubt,' replied Chauvelin, with more than his accustomed blandness. "'If you will hold yourself entirely at our disposition, Mademoiselle Lange will be set free to-morrow. I think that we can safely promise that, citizen Heron, can we not?' he added, turning to his colleague. "'But Heron, overcome with the stress of emotions, could only murmur vague, unintelligible words.' "'Your word on that, citizen Chauvelin?' asked Armand. "'My word on it, and you will accept it.' "'No, I will not do that. Give me an unconditional certificate of safety, and I will believe you.' "'Of what use were that to you?' asked Chauvelin. "'I believe my capture to be of more importance to you than that of Mademoiselle Lange,' said Armand quietly. "'I will use the certificate of safety for myself or one of my friends if you break your word to me and end Mademoiselle Lange.' "'Hmm. The reason is not illogical, citizen,' said Chauvelin, whilst a curious smile played round the corners of his thin lips. "'You are quite right. You are a more valuable asset to us than the charming lady who, I hope, will for many a day and year to come, delight pleasure-loving Paris with her talent and her grace.' "'Amen to that, citizen,' said Armand, fervently. "'Well, it will all depend on you, sir.' "'Here,' he added, coolly running over some papers on Heron's desk, until he found what he wanted, "'is an absolutely conditional certificate of safety. The Committee of General Security issue very few of these. It is worth the cost of a human life. At no barrier or gate of any city can such a certificate be disregarded, nor even can it be detained. Allow me to hand it to you, citizen, as a pledge of my own good faith.' Everything, urbane, with a curious look that almost expressed amusement lurking in his shrewd, pale eyes, Chauvelin handed the momentous document to Armand. The young man studied it very carefully before he slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat. "'How soon shall I have news of Manoise-Lange?' he asked, finally. "'In the course of to-morrow. I myself will call on you and redeem that precious document in person. You, on the other hand, will hold yourself at my disposition. That's understood, is it not? I shall not fail you. My lodgings are—oh, do not trouble!—interpose Chauvelin with a polite bow. We can find that out for ourselves.' Heron had taken no part in this colloquy. Now that Armand prepared to go, he made no attempt to detain him, or to question his colleague's actions. He sat by the table like a log. His mind was obviously a blank to all else, saved to his own terrors engendered by the events of this night. With bleary, half-veiled eyes he followed Armand's progress through the room, and seemed unaware of the loud slamming of the outside door. Chauvelin had escorted the young man past the first line of sentry, then he took cordial leave of him. "'Your certificate will, you will find, open every gate to you. Good-night, citizen. Ademand. Good-night.' Armand's slim figure disappeared in the gloom. Chauvelin watched him for a few moments until even his footsteps had died away in the distance. Then he turned back towards Heron's lodgings. "'Anoude,' he muttered, between tightly clenched teeth. "'Anoude, once more, my enigmatical scarlet pimpinelle.'" CHAPTER XXI It was an exceptionally dark night, and the rain was falling in torrents. Sir Andrew Folks, wrapped in a piece of sacking, had taken shelter right underneath the coal-cart. Even then he was getting wet through to the skin. He had worked hard for two days, coal-heaving, and the night before he had found a cheap, squalid lodging, where at any rate he was protected from the inclinancies of the weather. But to-night he was expecting Blakeney at the appointed hour in place. He had secured a cart of the ordinary ramshackle pattern used for carrying coal. Unfortunately there were no covered ones to be obtained in the neighbourhood, and equally unfortunately, the Thor had set him with a blustering wind and driving rain, which made waiting in the open air for hours at a stretch and in complete darkness excessively unpleasant. But for all these discomforts Sir Andrew Folks cared not one jot. In England, in his magnificent Suffolk home, he was a confirmed Siborite, in whose service every description of comfort and luxury had to be enrolled. Here to-night, in the rough and tattered clothes of a coal-heaver, drenched to the skin and crouching under the body of a cart that hardly sheltered him from the rain, he was as happy as a schoolboy out for a holiday. Happy but vaguely anxious. He had no means of ascertaining the time. So many of the church bells and clock towers had been silenced recently, that not one of those welcome sounds penetrated to the dreary desolation of this canal-warf, with its abandoned carts standing ghost-like in a row. Darkness had set in very early in the afternoon, and the heavers had given up work soon after four o'clock. For about an hour after that a certain animation had still reigned around the wharf, men crossing and growing, one or two of the barges moving in or out alongside the key. But for some time now, darkness and silence had been the masters in this desolate spot, and that time had seemed to Sir Andrew an eternity. He had hobbled and tethered his horse and stretched himself out at full length under the cart. Now and again he had crawled out from under this uncomfortable shelter, and walked up and down in ankle-deep mud, trying to restore circulation in his stiffened limbs. Now and again a kind of torpor had come over him, and he had fallen into a brief and restless sleep. He would at this moment have given half his fortune for knowledge of the exact time. But through all this weary waiting, he was never for a moment in doubt. Unlike Armand Saint-Jus, he had the simplest, most perfect faith in his chief. He had been Blakeney's constant companion in all these adventures for close upon four years now. The thought of failure, however vague, never once entered his mind. He was only anxious for his chief's welfare. He knew that he would succeed, but he would have liked to have spared him much of the physical fatigue and the nerve-wracking strain of these hours that lay between the daring deed and the hope of safety. Therefore he was conscious of an acute tingling of his nerves, which went on even during the brief patches of fitful sleep, and through the numbness that invaded his whole body while the hours dragged wearily and slowly along. Then quite suddenly he felt wakeful and alert. Quite a while, even before he heard the welcome signal, he knew with a curious, subtle sense of magnetism that the hour had come, and that his chief was somewhere nearby, not very far. Then he heard the cry, a seemew's call, repeated thrice at intervals, and five minutes later something loomed out of the darkness quite close to the hind wheels of the cart. Psst! Fuchs! came in a soft whisper, scarce, louder than the wind. Present! came in quick response. Here! Help me lift the child into the cart. He is asleep, and has been a dead weight on my arm for close on an hour now. Have your dry bit of sacking or something to lay him on? Not very dry, I'm afraid. With tender care the two men lifted the sleeping little king of France into the rickety cart. Blake knee-late his cloak over him, and listened for a while to the slow, regular breathing of the child. Saint-Just is not here. You know that?" said Sir Andrew, after a while. Yes, I knew it, replied Blake knee-curtly. It was characteristic of these two men that not a word about the adventure itself, about the terrible risks and dangers of the past few hours was exchanged between them. The child was here, and was safe, and Blake knee knew the whereabouts of Saint-Just. That was enough for Sir Andrew Fawkes, the most devoted follower, the most perfect friend the scarlet pimpenel would ever know. Fawkes now went to the horse, detached the nose-bag, and undid the nooses of the hobble and of the tether. Will you get in now, Blake knee? He said. We are ready." And in unbroken silence they both got into the cart. Blake knee sitting on its floor beside the child, and folks gathering the reins in his hands. The wheels of the cart and the slow, jog-trot of the horse made scarcely any noise in the mud of the roads. What noise they did make was effectually drowned by the sowing of the wind and the bare branches of the stunted acacia trees that edged the tow-path along the line of the canal. Sir Andrew had studied the topography of this desolate neighborhood well during the past twenty-four hours. He knew of a detour that would enable him to avoid the lavie-yette gate and the neighborhood of the fortifications, and yet bring him out soon on the road leaning to Saint-Germain. Once he turned to ask Blake knee the time. It must be close on ten now, replied Sir Percy. Push your nag along, old man. Tony and Hastings will be waiting for us. It was very difficult to see clearly even a meter or two ahead, but the road was a straight one, and the old nag seemed to know it almost as well and better than her driver. She shambled along at her own pace, covering the ground very slowly for folks burning impatience. Once or twice he had to get down and lead her over a rough piece of ground. They passed several groups of dismal, squalid houses, in some of which a dim light still burned, and as they skirted Saint-Germain, the church-clock slowly told the hour of midnight. But for the greater part of the way, derelict, uncultivated spaces of terrain vague, and a few isolated houses lay between the road and the fortifications of the city. The darkness of the night, the late hour, the sowing of the wind, were all in favour of the adventurers, and a coal-cart slowly trudging along in this neighbourhood, with two labourers sitting in it, was the least likely of any vehicle to attract attention. Past cliché they had to cross the river by the rickety wooden bridge that was unsafe even in broad daylight. They were not far from their destination now. If a dozen kilometres further on they would be leaving Gourbois on their left, and then the signpost would come inside. After that the spinny just off the road, and the welcome presence of Tony, Hastings, and the horses. Folks got down in order to make sure of the way. He walked at the horse's head now, fearful lest he missed the crossroads in the signpost. The horse was getting overtired. It had covered fifteen kilometres, and it was close on three o'clock of Monday morning. Another hour went by in absolute silence. Folks and Blakeney took turns at the horse's head. Then at last they reached the crossroads. Even through the darkness the signpost showed white against the surrounding gloom. "'This looks like it,' murmured Sir Andrew. He turned the horse's head sharply towards the left, down a narrower road, and leaving the signpost behind him. He walked slowly along for another quarter of an hour. Then Blakeney called a halt. "'The spinny must be sharp on eye right now,' he said. He got down from the cart, and while folks remained beside the horse he plunged into the gloom. A moment later the cry of the seamew rang out three times into the air. It was answered almost immediately. The spinny lay on the right of the road. Soon the soft sounds that were trained ear invariably betrayed the presence of a number of horses reached folks' straining senses. He took his old nag out of the shafts, and the shabby harness from off her. Then he turned her out onto a piece of wasteland that faced the spinny. One would find her in the morning. Her and the cart with the shabby harness laid in it, and having wondered if all these things had perchance dropped down from heaven, would quietly appropriate them and may have thanked much maligned heaven for its gift. Blakeney in the meanwhile had lifted the sleeping child out of the cart. Then he called to Sir Andrew and led the way across the road and into the spinny. Five minutes later hastings received the uncrowned King of France in his arms. Unlike folks, my Lord Tony wanted to hear all about the adventure of this afternoon. A thorough sportsman, he loved a good story of hair-bread that escapes, of dangers cleverly avoided, risks taken and conquered. Just in ten words, Blakeney, he urged entreatingly, how did you actually get the boy away? Sir Percy laughed, despite himself at the young man's eagerness. Next time we'd meet, Tony, he begged, I'm so damned fatigued, and there's this beastly rain. No, no, now! While hastings ceased to the horses, I could not exist long without knowing, and we are well sheltered from the rain under this tree. Well, then, since you will have it, he began with a laugh, which despite the weariness and anxiety of the past twenty-four hours, had forced its way to his lips. I have been sweeper and man of all work at the temple for the past few weeks, you must know. No! ejaculated my Lord Tony lustily. By gum! Indeed, you old Siborite, whilst you were enjoying yourself heaving coal on the canal-wolf, I was scrubbing floors, lighting fires, and doing a number of odd jobs for a lot of damned, murdering villains, and—he added under his breath, incidentally, too, for our league. Whenever I had an hour or two off-duty I spent them in my lodgings, and asked you all to come and meet me there. My God! Blakeney! From the day before yesterday, when we all met! I had just had a bath, sorely needed, I can tell you. I had been cleaning boots half the day, but I had heard that the seamole were removing from the temple on the Sunday, and had obtained an order from them to help them shift their furniture. Cleaning boots! murmured my Lord Tony with a chuckle. Well! And then? Well, then, everything worked out splendidly. You see, by that time I was a well-known figure in the temple. Heron knew me well. I used to be his lantern-mirror, when at night he visited that poor knight in his prison. It was Dupont here, Dupont there, all day long. Light the fire in the office, Dupont. Dupont brush my coat. Dupont fetch me a light. When the seamole wanted to move their household goods, they called Loutby for Dupont. I got a covered laundry-cart, and I brought a dummy with me to substitute for the child. Seymour himself knew nothing of this, but Madame was in my pain. The dummy was just splendid, with real hair on its head. Madame helped me to substitute it for the child. We laid it on the sofa, and covered it over with a rug. Even while those Brutes, Heron, and Couch-Faire were on the landing outside, and we stuffed His Majesty the King of France into a linen-basket. The room was badly lighted, and any one would have been deceived. No one was suspicious of that type of trickery, so it went off splendidly. I moved to the furniture of the seamole out of the tower. His Majesty King Louis XVII was still concealed in the linen-basket. I drove the seamole to their new lodgings. The man still suspects nothing, and there I helped them to unload the furniture, with the exception of the linen-basket, of course. After that I drove my laundry-cart to a house I knew of, and collected a number of linen-baskets which I had arranged should be in readiness for me. Thus, loaded up, I left Paris by the Vans-Saint-Gate, and drove as far as Bagnolais, where there is no road except past the octroie, where the officials might have proved unpleasant. So I lifted His Majesty out of the basket, and we walked on hand in hand in the darkness in the rain until the poor little feet gave out. Then the little fellow, who has been wonderfully plucky throughout, indeed more a capé than a bourbon, snuggled up in my arms and went fast asleep, and—and well, I think that's all, for here we are, you see. But if Madame Simon had not been amenable to bribery, suggested Lord Tony after a moment's silence, then I should have had to think of something else. If, during the removal of the furniture, Heron had remained resolutely in the room, then again I should have had to think of something else. But remember that in life there is always one supreme moment when chance, who is credited to have but one hair on her head, stands by you for a brief space of time. Sometimes that space is infinitesimal, one minute a few seconds, the time to seize chance by that one hair. So I pray you all give me no credit in this or any other matter in which we all work together, but the quickness of seizing chance by the hair during the brief moment when she stands by my side. If Madame Simon had been unamenable, if Heron had remained in the room all the time, if Gauche Faire had had two looks at the dummy instead of one, well, then something else would have helped me. Something would have occurred. Something—I know not what, but surely something which chance meant to be on our side, if only we were quick enough to seize it. And so you see how simple it all is. So simple, in fact, that it was sublime. The daring, the pluck, the ingenuity, and above all the superhuman heroism and endurance which rendered the hearers of this simple narrative simply told, dumb with admiration. Their thoughts were now beyond verbal expression. How soon was the human cry for the child about the streets? asked Tony after a moment's silence. It was not out when I left the gates of Paris, said Blakeney meditatively, so quietly as the news of the escape had been kept, that I am wondering what devoury that brute Heron can be after. And now no more chattering, he continued lightly, all to horse, and you hastings have a care. The destinies of France may have will be lying asleep in your arms. But you, Blakeney, exclaimed to the three men almost simultaneously, I am not going with you. I entrust the child to you. For God's sake, guard him well. Guide with him to Mount. You should arrive there about ten o'clock. One of you then go straight to Numbeney, Rue de la Tour. Ring the bell. An old man will answer it. Say the one word to him, enfant. He will reply, de roi. Give him the child, and may heaven bless you all for the help you have given me this night. But you, Blakeney, reiterated Tony with a note of deep anxiety in his fresh young voice. I am straight for Paris, he said quietly. Impossible. Therefore feasible. But why? In the name of heaven, do you realize what you are doing? Perfectly. They'll not leave a stone unturned to find you. They know by now, believe me, that your hand did this trick. I know that. And yet you mean to go back? And yet I am going back. Blakeney! It's no use, Tony. Armand is in Paris. I saw him in the corridor of the temple prison in the company of Chauvelin. Great! God! exclaimed Lord Hastings. The others were silent. What was the use in arguing? One of themselves was in danger. Armand s'enjouce to the brother of Marguerite Blakeney. Was it likely that Percy would leave him in the lurch? One of us will stay with you, of course," asked Sir Andrew after a while. Yes. I want Hastings and Tony to take the child to Mount, then to make all possible haste for Calais, and there to keep in close touch with the daydream. The skipper will contrive to open communication. Tell him to remain in Calais waters. I hope I may have need of him soon. And now to horse, both of you," he added gaily, Hastings, when you are ready, I will hand up the child to you. He will be quite safe on the pillion with a strap round him and you. Nothing more was said after that. The orders were given. There was nothing to do but to obey, and the uncrowned King of France was not yet out of danger. Hastings and Tony led two of the horses out of the spinny. At the roadside they mounted, and then the little lad for whose sakes so much heroism, such selfless devotion had been expended, was hoisted up, still half asleep, on the pillion in front of my Lord Hastings. Keep your arm around him," admonished Blakeney, your horse looks quiet enough, but put on speed as far as mount, and may heaven guard you both. The two men pressed their heels to their horses' flanks, and the beasts snorted and poured the ground, anxious to start. There were a few whispered farewells, two loyal hands were stretched out at the last, eager to grasp the leader's hand. Then horses and riders disappeared in the utter darkness which comes before the dawn. Blakeney and folks stood side by side in silence for as long as the pawing of hooves in the mud could reach their ears. Then folks asked abruptly, What do you want me to do, Blakeney? Well, for the present, my dear fellow, I want you to take one of the three horses we have left in the spinny, and put him into the shafts of our old friend the coal-cart. Then I am afraid that you must go back the way we came. Yes? Continue to heave coal on the canal-warf by Lavillette. It is the best way to avoid attention. After your day's work keep your cart and horse in readiness against my arrival, at the same spot where you were last night. If after having waited for me like this for three consecutive nights, you neither see nor hear anything from me, go back to England and tell Marguerite that in giving my life for her brother I gave it for her. Blakeney! I spoke differently to what I usually do, is that it? He interposed, placing his firm hand on his friend's shoulder. I am degenerating, folks, that's what it is. Pay no heed to it. I suppose that carrying that sleeping child in my arms last night softened some nerves in my body. I was so infinitely sorry for the poor might, and vaguely wondered if I had not saved it from one misery, only to plunge it in another. There was such a fateful look on that one little face, as if destiny had already whittled its veto there against happiness. It came on me then how futile were our actions, if God chooses to interpose his will between us and our desires. Almost as he left off speaking, the rain ceased to patter down against the puddles in the road. Instead the clouds flew by at terrific speed, driven along by the blustering wind. It was less dark now, and Sir Andrew, peering through the gloom, could see his leader's face. It was singularly pale and hard, and the deep-set, lazy eyes had in them just that fateful look which he himself had spoken of just now. "'You are anxious about our mount, Percy?' asked folks softly. "'Yes. He should have trusted me as I had trusted him. He missed me at the viet gate on Friday, and without a thought, left me, left us all in the lurch. He threw himself into the lion's jaws, thinking that he could help the girl he loved. I knew that I could save her. She is in comparative safety even now. The old woman, Madame Bellom, had been freely released the day after her arrest. But Jean Lange is still in the house in the Rue de Charon. You know it, folks. I got her there early this morning. It was easy for me, of course. "'Oh, là, du bon, my boots, du bon! One moment, citizen, my daughter. Curse thy daughter, bring me my boots!' And Jean Lange walked out of the temple-prison her hand in that of the lout du pont. "'But our man does not know that she is in the Rue de Charon?' "'No. I have not seen him since that early morning on Saturday when he came to tell me that she had been arrested. Having sworn that he would obey me, he went to meet you and Tony at la viet, but returned to Paris a few hours later, and drew the undivided attention of all the committees on Jean Lange by his senseless, foolish inquiries. Not for his action throughout the whole of yesterday, I could have smuggled Jean out of Paris, got her to join you at la viet, or Hastings in Saint-Germain. But the barriers were being closely watched for her, and I had the dauphan to think of. She is in comparative safety. The people in the Rue de Charon are friendly for the moment. But for how long? Who knows. I must look after her, of course. And Armand. Poor old Armand. The lion's jaws have snapped over him, and they hold him tight. La and its gang are using him as a decoy to trap me, of course. All that had not happened if Armand had trusted me. He sighed a quick sigh of impatience, almost of regret. Folks was the one man who could guess the bitter disappointment that this had meant. Percy had longed to be back in England soon, back to Marguerite, for a few days of unalloyed happiness, and a few days of peace. Now Armand's actions had retarded all that. They were a deliberate bar to the future, as it had been mapped out by a man who foresaw everything, who was prepared for every eventuality. In this case, too, he had been prepared, but not for the want of trust which had brought on disobedience akin to disloyalty. That absolutely unforeseen eventuality had changed Blakeney's usually responsible gaiety into a consciousness of the inevitable, of the inexorable decrees of fate. With an anxious sigh, Sir Andrew turned away from his chief, and went back to the spinny to select for his own purposes one of the three horses which Hastings and Tony had unavoidably left behind. And you, Blakeney, how will you go back to that awful Paris? He said, when he had made his choice, and was once more back beside Percy. I don't know yet," replied Blakeney, but it would not be safe to ride. I'll reach one of the gates on this side of the city and contrive to slip in, somehow. I have a certificate of safety in my pocket in case I need it. We'll leave the horses here," he said presently, whilst he was helping Sir Andrew to put the horse in the shafts of the coal-card. They cannot come to much harm. Some poor devil might steal them in order to escape from those vile brutes in the city. If so, God speed him, say I. I'll compensate my friend the farmer of Saint-Germain for their loss at the nearly opportunity. And now, good-bye, my dear fellow. Some time to-night, if possible, you shall hear direct news of me. If not, then to-morrow, or the day after that. Good-bye, and Heaven guard you. God guard you, Blakeney," said Sir Andrew fervently. He jumped into the cart and gathered up the reins. His heart was heavy as lead, and a strange mist had gathered in his eyes, blurring the last dim vision which he had of his chief standing all alone in the gloom, his broad, magnificent figure looking almost weirdly erect and defiant, his head thrown back, and his kind, lazy eyes watching the final departure of his most faithful comrade and friend. CHAPTER XXII. OF THAT THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION. Blakeney had more than one pirate d'air in Paris, and never stayed longer than two or three days in any of these. It was not difficult for a single man, be he laborer or bourgeois, to obtain a night's lodging, even in these most troubleous times, and in any quarter of Paris, provided the rent, out of all proportion to the comfort and accommodation given, was prayed ungrudgingly and in advance. Emigration, and above all the enormous death-role of the past eighteen months, had emptied the apartment-houses of the great city, and those who had rooms to let were only too glad of a lodger, always providing they were not in danger of being worried by the committees of their section. The laws framed by these same committees now demanded that all keepers of lodging or apartment-houses, should within twenty-four hours give notice at the bureau of their individual sections of the advent of new lodgers, together with the description of the personal appearance of such lodgers, and an indication of their presumed civil status and occupation. But there was a margin of twenty-four hours, which could, on pressure, be extended to forty-eight, and therefore any one could obtain shelter for forty-eight hours and have no questions asked, provided he or she was willing to pay the exorbitant some usually asked under the circumstances. Thus, Blakeney had no difficulty in securing what lodgings he wanted, when he once more found himself inside Paris, at somewhere about noon of that same Monday. The thought of Hastings and Tony speeding on towards Mount, with the royal child safely held in Hastings' arms, had kept his spirits buoyant, and caused him for a while to forget the terrible peril in which Armand Saint-Just's thoughtless egoism had placed them both. Blakeney was a man of abnormal physique and iron nerve, else he could never have endured the fatigues of the past twenty-four hours, from the moment when, on the Sunday afternoon, he began to play his part of furniture remover at the temple, to that when, at last, on Monday at noon, he succeeded in persuading the sergeant at the Mayo gate, that he was an honest stone mason residing at Neuilly, who was come to Paris in search of work. After that, matters became more simple. Terribly futzel, though he would never have admitted it, dreary and weary, he turned into an unpretentious eating-house and ordered some dinner. The place when he entered was occupied mostly by labourers and workmen, dressed very much as he was himself, and quite as grimy as he had become after having driven about for hours in a laundry cart and in a coal cart, and having walked twelve kilometers, some of which he had covered whilst carrying a sleeping child in his arms. Thus, Sir Percy Blakeney Baronet, the friend and companion of the Prince of Wales, the most fastidious fop the salons of London and Bath had ever seen, was in no way distinguishable outwardly from the tattered, half-starved, dirty and out-at-elbow products of this fraternizing and equalizing republic. He was so hungry that the ill-cooked, badly-served meal tempted him to eat, and he ate on in silence, seemingly more interested in boiled beef than in the conversation that went on around him. But he would not have been the keen and daring adventurer that he was, if he did not all the while keep his ears open for any fragment of news that the desultory talk of his fellow diners was likely to yield to him. Politics were, of course, disgust. The tyranny of the sections, the slavery that this free republic had brought on its citizens. The names of the chief personages of the day were all mentioned in turns—Fouquiette-Enville, Sainterre, Danton, Robespierre. Heron and his sleuth-hounds were spoken of with execrations quickly suppressed, but of little cape, not one word. Blakeney could not help but infer that Chauvelin, Heron, and other commissaries-in-charge were keeping the escape of the child a secret for as long as they could. He could hear nothing of Armand's fate, of course. The arrest, if arrest there had been, was not likely to be brooded abroad just now. Blakeney, having last seen Armand in Chauvelin's company, whilst he himself was moving the cement furniture, could not for a moment doubt that the young man was imprisoned, unless, indeed, he was being allowed a certain measure of freedom whilst his every step was being spied on so that he might act as a decoy for his chief. But thought of that, all weariness seemed to vanish from Blakeney's powerful frame. He set his lips firmly together, and, once again, the light of the responsible gaiety danced in his eyes. He had been in as tight a corner as this before now. At Boulogne, his beautiful margarite had been used as a decoy, and twenty-four hours later he had held her in his arms on board his yacht, the Daydream. As he would have put it in his own forcible language, those demmed murderers have not got me yet. The battle may have put this time be against greater odds than before, but Blakeney had no fear that they would prove overwhelming. There was in life but one odd that was overwhelming, and that was treachery, but of that there could be no question. In the afternoon Blakeney started off in search of lodgings for the night. He found what would suit him in the Roud-l'Argade, which was equally far from the House of Justice as it was from his former lodgings. Here he would be safe for at least twenty-four hours, after which he might have to shift again. But for the moment, the landlord of the miserable apartment was over-willing to make no fuss and ask no questions, for the sake of the money which this arristo in disguise dispensed with a lavish hand. Having taken possession of his new quarters and snatched a few hours of sound, well-deserved rest, until the time when the shades of evening and the darkness of the streets would make progress through the city somewhat more safe, Blakeney salied forth at about six o'clock, having a three-fold object in view. Finally, of course, the three-fold object was concentrated on Armand. There was the possibility of finding out at the young man's lodging Zemmour Mardre what had become of him. Then there were the usual inquiries, that could be made from the registers of the various prisons, and thirdly, there was the chance that Armand had succeeded in sending some kind of message to Blakeney's former lodgings in the Roud-Saint-Germain-Locsroix. On the whole, Cerpercy decided to leave the prison registers alone for the present. If Armand had actually been arrested, he would almost certainly be confined in the Châtelet prison, where he would be closer to hand for all the interrogations to which, no doubt, he would be subjected. Blakeney set his teeth and murmured a good sound British oath, when he thought of those interrogatories. Armand s'en jouste, highly strung, a dreamer, and a bundle of nerves. How he would suffer under the mental rack of questions and cross-questions, cleverly laid traps to catch information from him unawares. His next objective, then, was Armand's former lodging, and from six o'clock until close upon eight, Cerpercy haunted the slopes of Montmartre, and more especially, the neighborhood of the Roud-la-Croix-Blanche, where Armand had lodged these former days. At the house itself he could not inquire as yet—obviously it would not have been safe. Tomorrow, perhaps, when he knew more, but not tonight. His keen eyes had already spied at least two figures clothed in the rags of out-of-work labourers like himself, who had hung with suspicious persistence in this same neighborhood, and who during the two hours that he had been in observation, had never strayed out of sight of the house in the Roud-la-Croix-Blanche. That these were two spies on the watch was, of course, obvious. But whether they were on the watch for Saint-Jouste or for their mother unfortunate wretch, it was at this stage impossible to conjecture. Then, as from the Tour de Damme, close by the clock solemnly struck the hour of eight, and Blakeney prepared to wend his way back to another part of the city, he suddenly saw our mind walking slowly up the street. The young man did not look either to right or left. He held his head forward on his chest, and his hands were hidden underneath his cloak. When he passed immediately under one of the street lamps, Blakeney caught sight of his face. It was pale and drawn. Then he turned his head, and for the space of two seconds his eyes across the narrow street encountered those of his chief. He had the presence of mind not to make a sign or to utter a sound. He was obviously being followed. But in that brief moment, Sir Percy had seen in the young man's eyes a look that reminded him of a hunted creature. What of those brutes been up to with him, I wonder? He muttered between clenched teeth. Armand soon disappeared under the doorway of the same house where he had been lodging all along. Even as he did so, Blakeney saw the two spies gather together like a pair of slimy lizards, and whisper excitedly to one another. A third man, who obviously had been dogging Armand's footsteps, came up and joined them after a while. Blakeney could have sworn loudly and lustily, had it been possible to do so without attracting attention. The whole of Armand's history in the past twenty-four hours was perfectly clear to him. The young man had been made free that he might prove a decoy for more important game. His every step was being watched, and he still thought Jean lounge an immediate danger of death. The look of despair in his face proclaimed these two fags, and Blakeney's heart ached for the mental torture which his friend was enduring. He longed to let Armand know that the woman he loved was in comparative safety. Jean lounge first, and then Armand himself, and the odds would be very heavy against the scarlet pimpenel. But that Marguerite should not have to mourn an only brother, of that, Sir Percy made oath. He now turned his steps towards his own former lodgings by Saint Germain Luxrois. It was just possible that Armand had succeeded in leaving a message there for him. It was, of course, equally possible that when he did so Heron's men had watched his movements, and that spies would be stationed there, too, on the watch. But that risk must, of course, be run. Blakeney's former lodging was the one place that Armand would know of to which he could send a message to his chief, if he wanted to do so. Of course, the unfortunate young man could not have known until just now that Percy would come back to Paris. But he might guess it, or wish it, or only vaguely hope for it. He might want to send a message, he might long to communicate with his brother-in-law, and, perhaps, feel sure that the latter would not leave him in the lurch. With that thought in his mind, Sir Percy was not likely to give up the attempt to ascertain for himself whether Armand had tried to communicate with him or not. As for spies? Well, he had dodged some of them often enough in his time. The risks that he ran to-night were no worse than the ones to which he had so successfully run counter in the temple yesterday. Still keeping up the slouchy gate peculiar to the out-at-elbows working-man of the day, hugging the houses as he walked along the streets, Blakeney made slow progress across the city. But at last he reached the façade of Saint-Germain-Locsois, and turning sharply to his right, he soon came inside of the house which he had only quitted twenty-four hours ago. We all know that house. All of us who are familiar with the Paris of those terrible days. It stands quite detached, a vast quadrangle, facing the Gedley-Golle, and the river, backing on the Rue Saint-Germain-Locsois, and shouldering the gare-four des trois-mêmes. The Port-Cochère, so-called, is but a narrow doorway, and is actually situated in the Rue Saint-Germain-Locsois. Blakeney made his way cautiously right round the house. He peered up and down the quay, and his keen eyes tried to pierce the dense gloom that hung at the corners of the point-nurse immediately opposite. When he assured himself that for the present, at any rate, the house was not being watched, Armand presumably had not yet left a message for him here, but he might do so at any time, now that he knew that his chief was in Paris and on the lookout for him. Blakeney made up his mind to keep this house inside. This art of watching he had acquired to a masterly extent, and could have taught Heron's watch-dogs a remarkable lesson in it. At night, of course, it was a comparatively easy task. There were a good many unlighted doorways along the quay, whilst a street-lamp was fixed on a bracket in the wall of the very house which he kept in observation. Finding temporary shelter under various doorways or against the dank walls of the houses, Blakeney set himself resolutely to a few hours weary waiting. A thin, drizzly rain fell with unpleasant persistence, like a damp mist, and the thin blouse which he wore soon became wet through and clung hard in chilly to his shoulders. It was close on midnight, when at last he thought it best to give up his watch, and to go back to his lodgings for a few hours' sleep. But at seven o'clock the next morning he was back again at his post. The port-cauchère of his former lodging-house was not yet open. He took up his stand close beside it. His woollen cap pulled well over his forehead, the grime cleverly plastered on his hair and face, his lower jaw thrust forward, his eyes looking lifeless and bleary, all gave him an expression of sly villainy, whilst the short clay pipe stuck at a sharp angle in his mouth, his hands thrust into the pockets of his ragged britches, and his bare feet into the mud of the road, gave the final touch to his representation of an out-of-work, ill-conditioned, and supremely discontented loafer. He had not very long to wait. Soon the port-cauchère of the house was opened, and the concierge came out with his broom, making a show of cleaning the pavement in front of the door. Five minutes later a lad whose clothes consisted entirely of rags, and whose feet and head were bare, came rapidly up the street from the quay, and walked along looking at the houses as he went, as if trying to decipher their number. The cold grey dawn was just breaking, dreary and damp, as all the past days had been. Blakeney watched the lad as he approached, the small naked feet falling noiselessly on the cobblestones of the road. When the boy was quite close to him, and to the house, Blakeney shifted his position and took the pipe out of his mouth. "'Ah, burly, my son,' he said, gruffly. "'Yes,' said the pale-faced little creature, "'I have a message to deliver at number nine, Rue Saint-Germain-Locsroix. "'It must be somewhere near here.' "'It is. "'You can give me the message.' "'Oh, no, citizen,' said the lad, into whose pale, circled eyes a look of terror had quickly appeared. "'It is for one of the lodges in number nine. I must give it to him.' With an instinct which he somehow felt could not err at this moment, Blakeney knew that the message was one from our man to himself. A written message, too, since, instinctively, when he spoke, the boy clutched at his thin shirt, as if trying to guard something precious that had been entrusted to him. "'I will deliver the message myself, sonny,' said Blakeney, gruffly. "'I know the citizen for whom it is intended. He would not like the concierge to see it.' "'Oh, I would not give it to the concierge,' said the boy. "'I would take it upstairs myself.' "'My son,' retorted Blakeney, "'let me tell you this. You are going to give that message up to me, and I will put five whole leavers into your hand.' Blakeney, with all his sympathy aroused for this poor, pale-faced lad, put on the airs of a ruffianly bully. He did not wish that message to be taken indoors by the lad, for the concierge might get hold of it, despite the boy's protests and tears, and after that Blakeney would perforce have to disclose himself before it would be given up to him. During the past week the concierge had been very amenable to bribery. Whatever suspicions he had had about his lodger, he had kept to himself for the sake of the money which he received. But it was impossible to gauge any man's trend of thought these days from one hour to the next. Something, for ought Blakeney knew, might have occurred in the past twenty-four hours to change an amenable and accommodating lodging-housekeeper into a surly or dangerous spy. Fortunately the concierge had once more gone within. There was no one abroad, and if there were, no one would probably take any notice of a burly ruffian brow-beating a child. Allons, he said gruffly, give me the letter, or that five livre goes back into my pocket. Five livre? exclaimed the child with pathetic eagerness. Oh, citizen! The thin little hand fumbled under the rags, but it reappeared again empty whilst a faint blush spread over the hollow cheeks. The other citizen also gave me five livre, he said humbly. He lodges in the house where my mother is concierge. It is in the rue de la Croix-Blanche. He has been very kind to my mother. I would rather do as he bade me. Bless the lad! murmured Blakeney under his breath. This loyalty redeems many a crime of this godforsaken city. I suppose I shall have to bully him, after all. He took his hand out of his breecher's pocket. Between two very dirty fingers he held a piece of gold. The other hand he placed quite roughly on the lad's chest. Give me the letter, he said harshly, or he pulled at the ragged blouse, and a scrap of soiled paper soon fell into his hand. The lad began to cry, here, said Blakeney, thrusting the piece of gold into the thin, small palm. Take this home to your mother and tell your lodger that a big, rough man took the letter away from you by force. Now run before I kick you out of the way. The lad, terrified out of his poor wits, did not wait for further commands. He took to his heels and ran, his small hand clutching the piece of gold. Soon he had disappeared round the corner of the street. Blakeney did not at once read the paper. He thrusted quickly into his breecher's pocket, and slouched away slowly down the street, and then succrossed the Place du Carousel in the direction of his new lodging's Nerud-Larkab. It was only when he found himself alone in the narrow, squalid room which he was occupying that he took the scrap of paper from his pocket and read it slowly through. It said, Percy, you cannot forgive me, nor can I ever forgive myself. But if you only knew what I have suffered for the past two days, you would, I think, try and forgive. I am free, and yet a prisoner. My every footstep is dogged. What they ultimately mean to do with me, I do not know. And when I think of Jean, I long for the power to end my own miserable existence. Percy, she is still in the hands of those fiends. I saw the prison register. Her name written there has been like a burning brand on my heart ever since. She was still in prison the day that you left Paris. Tomorrow, to-night, may have, they would try her, condemn her, torture her, and I dare not go to see you, for I would only be bringing spies to your door. But will you come to me, Percy? It should be safe in the hours of the night, and the concierge is devoted to me. Tonight at ten o'clock she will leave the porte-cauchere unlatched. If you find it so, and if on the ledge of the window immediately on your left, as you enter, you find a candle alight, and beside it a scrap of paper with your initials, SP, traced on it, then it will be quite safe for you to come up to my room. It is on the second landing, a door on your right. That too, I will leave on the latch. But in the name of the woman you love best in all the world, come at once to me then, and bear in mind, Percy, that the woman I love is threatened with immediate death, and that I am powerless to save her. If you did believe me, I would gladly die even now but for the thought of Jean, whom I should be leaving in the hands of those fiends. For God's sake, Percy, remember that Jean is all the world to me. Poor old Armand, murmured Blakeney with a kindly smile directed at the absent friend, he won't trust me even now. He won't trust his Jean in my hands. Well, he added after a while, after all, I would not entrust Marguerite to anybody else either. CHAPTER XXIII The Overwhelming Odds At half-past ten that same evening, Blakeney, still clad in a workman's tattered clothes, his feet bare so that he could tread the streets unheard, turned into the rude lacroix-blanche. The port-cauchère of the house where Armand lodged had been left on the latch—not a soul was in sight. Peering cautiously round, he slipped into the house. On the ledge of the window, immediately on his left, when he entered, a candle was left burning, and beside it there was a scrap of paper with the initials S.P. roughly traced in pencil. No one challenged him as he noiselessly glided past it, and up the narrow stairs that led to the upper floor. Here too, on the second landing, the door on the right had been left on the latch. He pushed it open and entered. As is usual, even in the meanest lodgings in Paris' houses, a small ante-chamber gave between the front door and the main room. When Percy entered, the ante-chamber was unlighted, but the door into the inner room beyond was ajar. Blakeney approached it with noiseless tread, and gently pushed it open. That very instant, he knew that the game was up. He heard the footsteps closing up behind him, saw Armand, deathly pale, leaning against the wall in the room in front of him, and Chauvelin and Heron standing guard over him. The next moment the room and the ante-chamber were literally alive with soldiers, twenty of them to arrest one man. It was characteristic of that man, that when hands were laid on him from every side, he threw back his head and laughed, laughed mirthfully, light-heartedly, and the first words that escaped his lips were, Well, I'm damned! The odds are against you, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin to him in English, whilst Heron at the further end of the room was growling like a contented beast. "'By the Lord, sir,' said Percy, with perfect sang-fois, I do believe that for the moment they are.' "'Have done, my men, have done,' he added, turning good humoredly to the soldiers round him. I never fight against overwhelming odds. Twenty to one, eh? I could lay four of you out easily enough, perhaps even six. But what then?' But a kind of savage lust seemed to have rendered these men temporarily mad, and they were being egged on by a Heron, the mysterious Englishman about whom so many eerie tales were told. Well, he had supernatural powers, and twenty to one might be nothing to him if the devil was on his side. Therefore a blow on his forearm with the butt-end of a bayonet was useful for disabling his right hand, and soon the left arm with the dislocated shoulder hung limp by his side. Then he was bound with cords. The vein of luck had given out. The gambler had staked more than usual, and had lost. But he knew how to lose, just as he had always known how to win. Those demmed brutes are trustingly like a foul, he murmured, with irrepressible gaiety at the last. Then the wrench on his bruised arms, as they were pulled roughly back by the cords, caused the veil of unconsciousness to gather over his eyes. And Jean was safe, Armand. He shouted with the last desperate effort, those devils have lied to you and tricked you into this, since yesterday she is out of prison, in the house, you know. After that, he lost consciousness. And this occurred on Tuesday, January 21st, in the year 1794, or in accordance with the new calendar, on the second blue viole's, year two of the Republic. It is chronicled in the moniteur of the third blue viole's that, on the previous evening, at half-past ten o'clock, the Englishman known as the Scarlet Pimponel, who, for three years, has conspired against the safety of the Republic, was arrested through the patriotic exertions of citizen Chauvelin and conveyed to the Conciergerie, where he now lies, sick but closely guarded. Long live the Republic!