Lord Tony's Wife (25 page)

He thought the matter over for fully five minutes, during which there was dead silence in the two rooms—silence only broken by the stertorous breathing of that wretched coward, and the measured ticking of the fine buhl clock behind him. Chauvelin’s pale eyes were fixed upon the darkness, through which he could vaguely discern the uncouth figure of the proconsul, sprawling over his desk. Which way would his passions sway him? Chauvelin as he watched and waited felt that his habitual self-control was perhaps more severely taxed at this moment than it had ever been before. Upon the swaying of those passions, the passions of a man infinitely craven and infinitely base, depended all his—Chauvelin’s—hopes of getting even at last with a daring and resourceful foe. Terror and rapacity were the counsellors which ranged themselves on the side of his schemes, but mere vanity and caprice fought a hard battle too.

In the end it was rapacity that gained the victory. An impatient exclamation from young Lalouλt roused Carrier from his sombre brooding and hastened on a decision which was destined to have such momentous consequences for the future of both these men.

“Introduce Citizen Chauvelin in here, Lalouλt,” said the proconsul grudgingly. “I will listen to what he has to say.”

II

Chauvelin crossed the threshold of the tyrant’s sanctuary, in no way awed by the majesty of that dreaded presence or confused by the air of mystery which hung about the room.

He did not even bestow a glance on the multitudinous objects of art and the priceless furniture which littered the tiger’s lair. His pale face remained quite expressionless as he bowed solemnly before Carrier and then took the chair which was indicated to him. Young Lalouλt fetched a candelabra from the anteroom and carried it into the audience chamber: then he closed the communicating doors. The candelabra he placed on a console-table immediately behind Carrier’s desk and chair, so that the latter’s face remained in complete shadow, whilst the light fell full upon Chauvelin.

“Well! what is it?” queried the proconsul roughly. “What is this story of English spies inside Nantes? How did they get here? Who is responsible for keeping such rabble out of our city? Name of a dog, but some one has been careless of duty! and carelessness these days is closely allied to treason.”

He talked loudly and volubly—his inordinate terror causing the words to come tumbling, almost incoherently, out of his mouth. Finally he turned on Chauvelin with a snarl like an angry cat:

“And how comes it, Citizen,” he added savagely, “that you alone here in Nantes are acquainted with the whereabouts of those dangerous spies?”

“I caught sight of them,” rejoined Chauvelin calmly, “this afternoon after I left you. I knew we should have them here, the moment Citizen Martin-Roget brought the Kernogans into the city. The woman is the wife of one of them.”

“Curse that blundering fool Martin-Roget for bringing that rabble about our ears, and those assassins inside our gates.”

“Nay! Why should you complain, Citizen Proconsul, rejoined Chauvelin in his blandest manner. Surely you are not going to let the English spies escape this time? And if you succeed in laying them by the heels—there where every one else has failed—you will have earned twenty thousand francs and the thanks of the entire Committee of Public Safety.”

He paused: and young Lalouλt interposed with his impudent laugh:

“Go on, Citizen Chauvelin,” he said, “if there is twenty thousand francs to be made out of this game, I’ll warrant that the proconsul will take a hand in it—eh, Carrier?”

And with the insolent familiarity of a terrier teasing a grizzly he tweaked the great man’s ear.

Chauvelin in the meanwhile had drawn the packet of papers from his pocket and untied the ribbon that held them together. He now spread the papers out on the desk.

“What are these?” queried Carrier.

“A few papers,” replied Chauvelin, “which one of your Marats, Paul Friche by name, picked up in the wake of the Englishmen. I caught sight of them in the far distance, and sent the Marats after them. For awhile Paul Friche kept on their track, but after that they disappeared in the darkness.”

“Who were the senseless louts,” growled Carrier, “who allowed a pack of foreign assassins to escape? I’ll soon make them disappear…in the Loire.”

“You will do what you like about that, Citizen Carrier,” retorted Chauvelin dryly; “in the meanwhile you would do well to examine these papers.”

He sorted these out, examined them one by one, then passed them across to Carrier. Lalouλt, impudent and inquisitive, sat on the corner of the desk, dangling his legs. With scant ceremony he snatched one paper after another out of Carrier’s hands and examined them curiously.

“Can you understand all this gibberish?” he asked airily. “Jean Baptiste, my friend, how much English do you know?”

“Not much,” replied the proconsul, “but enough to recognize that abominable doggerel rhyme which has gone the round of the Committees of Public Safety throughout the country.”

“I know it by heart,” rejoined young Lalouλt. “I was in Paris once, when Citizen Robespierre received a copy of it. Name of a dog!” added the youngster with a coarse laugh, “how he cursed!”

It is doubtful however if Citizen Robespierre did on that occasion curse quite so volubly as Carrier did now.

“If I only knew why that satanι Englishman throws so much calligraphy about,” he said, “I would be easier in my mind. Now this senseless rhyme…I don’t see…”

“It’s importance?” broke in Chauvelin quietly. “I dare say not. On the face of it, it appears foolish and childish: but it is intended as a taunt and is really a poor attempt at humour. They are a queer people these English. If you knew them as I do, you would not be surprised to see a man scribbling off a cheap joke before embarking on an enterprise which may cost him his head.”

“And this inane rubbish is of that sort,” concluded young Lalouλt. And in his thin high treble he began reciting:

‘We seek him here; We seek him there! Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in h—ll? That demmed elusive Pimpernel?”

“Pointless and offensive,” he said as he tossed the paper back on the table.

“A cursed aristo that Englishman of yours,” growled Carrier. “Oh! when I get him…”

He made an expressive gesture which made Lalouλt laugh.

“What else have we got in the way of documents, Citizen Chauvelin?” he asked.

“There is a letter,” replied the latter.

“Read it,” commanded Carrier. “Or rather translate it as you read. I don’t understand the whole of the gibberish.”

And Chauvelin, taking up a sheet of paper which was covered with neat, minute writing, began to read aloud, translating the English into French as he went along:

“Here we are at last, my dear Tony! Didn’t I tell you that we can get in anywhere despite all precautions taken against us!”

“The impudent devils!” broke in Carrier.

–“Did you really think that they could keep us out of Nantes while Lady Anthony Dewhurst is a prisoner in their hands.”

“Who is that?”

“The Kernogan woman. As I told you just now, she is married to an Englishman who is named Dewhurst and who is one of the members of that thrice cursed League.”

Then he continued to read:

“And did you really suppose that they would spot half a dozen English gentlemen in the guise of peat-gatherers, returning at dusk and covered with grime from their work? Not like, friend Tony! Not like! If you happen to meet mine engaging friend Monsieur Chambertin before I have that privilege myself tell him I pray you, with my regards, that I am looking forward to the pleasure of making a long nose at him once more. Calais, Boulogne, Paris—now Nantes—the scenes of his triumphs multiply exceedingly.”

“What in the devil’s name does all this mean?” queried Carrier with an oath.

“You don’t understand it?” rejoined Chauvelin quietly.

“No. I do not.”

“Yet I translated quite clearly.”

“It is not the language that puzzles me. The contents seem to me such drivel. The man wants secrecy, what? He is supposed to be astute, resourceful, above all mysterious and enigmatic. Yet he writes to his friend—matter of no importance between them, recollections of the past, known to them both—and threats for the future, equally futile and senseless. I cannot reconcile it all. It puzzles me.”

“And it would puzzle me,” rejoined Chauvelin, while the ghost of a smile curled his thin lips, “did I not know the man. Futile? Senseless, you say? Well, he does futile and senseless things one moment and amazing deeds of personal bravery and of astuteness the next. He is three parts a braggart too. He wanted you, me—all of us to know how he and his followers succeeded in eluding our vigilance and entered our closely-guarded city in the guise of grimy peat-gatherers. Now I come to think of it, it was easy enough for them to do that. Those peat-gatherers who live inside the city boundaries return from their work as the night falls in. Those cursed English adventurers are passing clever at disguise—they are born mountebanks the lot of them. Money and impudence they have in plenty. They could easily borrow or purchase some filthy rags from the cottages on the dunes, then mix with the crowd on its return to the city. I dare say it was cleverly done. That Scarlet Pimpernel is just a clever adventurer and nothing more. So far his marvellous good luck has carried him through. Now we shall see.”

Carrier had listened in silence. Something of his colleague’s calm had by this time communicated itself to him too. He was no longer raving like an infuriated bull—his terror no longer made a half-cringing, wholly savage brute of him. He was sprawling across the desk—his arms folded, his deep-set eyes studying closely the well-nigh inscrutable face of Chauvelin. Young Lalouλt too had lost something of his impudence. That mysterious spell which seemed to emanate from the elusive personality of the bold English adventurer had been cast over these two callous, bestial natures, humbling their arrogance and making them feel that here was no ordinary situation to be dealt with by smashing, senseless hitting and the spilling of innocent blood. Both felt instinctively too that this man Chauvelin, however wholly he may have failed in the past, was nevertheless still the only man who might grapple successfully with the elusive and adventurous foe.

“Are you assuming, Citizen Chauvelin,” queried Carrier after awhile, “that this packet of papers was dropped purposely by the Englishman, so that it might get into our hands?”

“There is always such a possibility,” replied Chauvelin dryly. “With that type of man one must be prepared to meet the unexpected.”

“Then go on, Citizen Chauvelin. What else is there among these satanι papers?”

“Nothing further of importance. There is a map of Nantes, and one of the coast and of Le Croisic. There is a cutting from Le Moniteur dated last September, and one from the London Gazette dated three years ago. The Moniteur makes reference to the production of Athalie at the Thιβtre Moliθre, and the London Gazette to the sale of fat cattle at an agricultural show. There is a receipted account from a London tailor for two hundred pounds worth of clothes supplied, and one from a Lyons mercer for an hundred francs worth of silk cravats. Then there is the one letter which alone amidst all this rubbish appears to be of any consequence…”

He took up the last paper: his hand was still quite steady.

“Read the letter,” said Carrier.

“It is addressed in the English fashion to Lady Anthony Dewhurst,” continued Chauvelin slowly, “the Kernogan woman you know Citizen. It says:

“Keep up your courage. Your friends are inside the city and on the watch. Try the door of your prison every evening at one hour before midnight. Once you will find it yield. Slip out and creep noiselessly down the stairs. At the bottom a friendly hand will be stretched out to you. Take it with confidence—it will lead you to safety and to freedom. Courage and secrecy.”

Lalouλt had been looking over his shoulder while he read: now he pointed to the bottom of the letter.

“And there is the device” he said, “we have heard so much about of late—a five-petalled flower drawn in red ink…the Scarlet Pimpernel, I presume.”

“Aye! the Scarlet Pimpernel,” murmured Chauvelin, “as you say! Braggadocio on his part or accident, his letters are certainly in our hands now and will prove—must prove, the tool whereby we can be even with him once and for all.”

“And you, Citizen Chauvelin,” interposed Carrier with a sneer, “are mighty lucky to have me to help you this time. I am not going to be fooled, as Candeille and you were fooled last September, as you were fooled in Calais and Hιron in Paris. I shall be seeing this time to the capture of those English adventurers.”

“And that capture should not be difficult,” added Lalouλt with a complacent laugh. “Your famous adventurer’s luck hath deserted him this time: an all-powerful proconsul is pitted against him and the loss of his papers hath destroyed the anonimity on which he reckons.”

Chauvelin paid no heed to the fatuous remarks.

How little did this flippant young braggart and this coarse-grained bully understand the subtle workings of that same adventurer’s brain! He himself—one of the most astute men of the day—found it difficult. Even now—the losing of those letters in the open streets of Nantes—it was part of a plan. Chauvelin could have staked his head on that—apart of a plan for the liberation of Lady Anthony Dewhurst—but what plan?—what plan?

He took up the letter which his colleague had thrown down: he fingered it, handled it, letting the paper crackle through his fingers, as if he expected it to yield up the secret which it contained. The time had come—of that he felt no doubt—when he could at last be even with his enemy. He had endured more bitter humiliation at the hands of this elusive Pimpernel than he would have thought himself capable of bearing a couple of years ago. But the time had come at last—if only he kept his every faculty on the alert, if Fate helped him and his own nerves stood the strain. Above all if this blundering, self-satisfied Carrier could be reckoned on!…

There lay the one great source of trouble! He—Chauvelin—had no power: he was disgraced—a failure—a nonentity to be sneered at. He might protest, entreat, wring his hands, weep tears of blood and not one man would stir a finger to help him: this brute who sprawled here across his desk would not lend him half a dozen men to enable him to lay by the heels the most powerful enemy the Government of the Terror had ever known. Chauvelin inwardly ground his teeth with rage at his own impotence, at his own dependence on this clumsy lout, who was at this moment possessed of powers which he himself would give half his life to obtain.