Lord Tony's Wife (26 page)

But on the other hand he did possess a power which no one could take from him—the power to use others for the furtherance of his own aims—to efface himself while others danced as puppets to his piping. Carrier had the power: he had spies, Marats, prison-guards at his disposal. He was greedy for the reward, and cupidity and fear would make of him a willing instrument. All that Chauvelin need do was to use that instrument for his own ends. One would be the head to direct, the other—a mere insentient tool.

From this moment onwards every minute, every second and every fraction of a second would be full of portent, full of possibilities. Sir Percy Blakeney was in Nantes with at least three or four members of his League: he was at this very moment taxing every fibre of his resourceful brain in order to devise a means whereby he could rescue his friend’s wife from the fate which was awaiting her: to gain this end he would dare everything, risk everything—risk and dare a great deal more than he had ever dared and risked before.

Chauvelin was finding a grim pleasure in reviewing the situation, in envisaging the danger of failure which he knew lay in wait for him, unless he too was able to call to his aid all the astuteness, all the daring, all the resource of his own fertile brain. He studied is colleague’s face keenly—that sullen, savage expression in it, the arrogance, the blundering vanity. It was terrible to have to humour and fawn to a creature of that stamp when all one’s hopes, all one’s future, one’s ideals and the welfare of one’s country were at stake.

But this additional difficulty only served to whet the man’s appetite for action. He drew in a long breath of delight, like a captive who first after many days and months of weary anguish scents freedom and ozone. He straightened out his shoulders. A gleam of triumph and of hope shot out of his keen pale eyes. He studied Carrier and he studied Lalouλt and he felt that he could master them both—quietly, diplomatically, with subtle skill that would not alarm the proconsul’s rampant self-esteem: and whilst this coarse-fibred brute gloated in anticipatory pleasure over the handling of a few thousand francs, and whilst Martin-Roget dreamed of a clumsy revenge against one woman and one man who had wronged him four years ago, he—Chauvelin—would pursue his work of striking at the enemy of the Revolution—of bringing to his knees the man who spent life and fortune in combating its ideals and in frustrating its aims. The destruction of such a foe was worthy a patriot’s ambition.

On the other hand some of Carrier’s bullying arrogance had gone. He was terrified to the very depths of his cowardly heart, and for once he was turning away from his favourite Jacques Lalouλt and inclined to lean on Chauvelin for advice. Robespierre had been known to tremble at sight of that small scarlet device; how much more had he—Carrier—cause to be afraid? He knew his own limitations and he was terrified of the assassin’s dagger. As Marat had perished, so he too might end his days, and the English spies were credited with murderous intentions and superhuman power. In his innermost self Carrier knew that despite countless failures Chauvelin was mentally his superior, and though he never would own to this and at this moment did not attempt to shed his overbearing manner, he was watching the other keenly and anxiously, ready to follow the guidance of an intellect stronger than his own.

III

At last Carrier elected to speak.

“And now, Citizen Chauvelin,” he said, “we know how we stand. We know that the English assassins are in Nantes. The question is how are we going to lay them by the heels?”

Chauvelin gave him no direct reply. He was busy collecting his precious papers together and thrusting them back into the pocket of his coat. Then he said quietly:

“It is through the Kernogan woman that we can get hold of him.”

“How?”

“Where she is, there will the Englishmen be. They are in Nantes for the sole purpose of getting the woman and her father out of your clutches…”

“Then it will be a fine haul inside the Rat Mort,” ejaculated Carrier with a chuckle. “Eh, Jacques, you young scamp? You and I must go and see that, what? You have been complaining that life was getting monotonous. Drownages—Republican marriages! They have all palled in their turn on your jaded appetite…But the capture of the English assassins, eh?…of that League of the Scarlet Pimpernel which has ever caused citizen Robespierre much uneasiness—that will stir up your sluggish blood, you lazy young vermin!…Go on, go on, Citizen Chauvelin, I am vastly interested!”

He rubbed his dry, bony hands together and cackled with glee. Chauvelin interposed quietly:

“Inside the Rat Mort, eh, Citizen?” he queried.

“Why, yes. Citizen Martin-Roget means to convey the Kernogan woman to the Rat Mort, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

“And you say that where the Kernogan woman is there the Englishmen will be…”

“The inference is obvious.”

“Which means ten thousand francs from that fool Martin-Roget for having the wench and her father arrested inside the Rat Mort! and twenty thousand for the capture of the English spies…Have you forgotten, Citizen Chauvelin,” he added with a raucous cry of triumph, “that commandant Fleury has my orders to make a raid on the Rat Mort this night with half a company of my Marats, and to arrest every one whom they find inside?”

“The Kernogan wench is not at the Rat Mort yet,” quoth Chauvelin dryly, “and you have refused to lend a hand in having her conveyed thither.”

“I can’t do it, my little Chauvelin,” rejoined Carrier, somewhat sobered by this reminder. “I can’t do it…you understand…my Marats taking an aristo to a house of ill-fame where presently I have her arrested…it won’t do…it won’t do…you don’t know how I am spied upon just now…It really would not do…I can’t be mixed up in that part of the affair. The wench must go to the Rat Mort of her own free will, or the whole plan falls to the ground. …That fool Martin-Roget must think of a way…it’s his affair, after all. He must see to it…Or you can think of a way,” he added, assuming the coaxing ways of a tiger-cat; “you are so clever, my little Chauvelin.”

“Yes,” replied Chauvelin quietly, “I can think of a way. The Kernogan wench shall leave the house of Citizeness Adet and walk into the tavern of the Rat Mort of her own free will. Your reputation, Citizen Carrier,” he added without the slightest apparent trace of a sneer, “your reputation shall be safeguarded in this matter. But supposing that in the interval of going from the one house to the other the English adventurer succeeded in kidnapping her…”

“Pah! is that likely?” quoth Carrier with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Exceedingly likely, Citizen; and you would not doubt it if you knew this Scarlet Pimpernel as I do. I have seen him at his nefarious work. I know what he can do. There is nothing that he would not venture…there are few ventures in which he does not succeed. He is as strong as an ox, as agile as a cat. He can see in the dark and he can always vanish in a crowd. Here, there and everywhere, you never know where he will appear. He is a past master in the art of disguise and he is a born mountebank. Believe me, Citizen, we shall want all the resources of our joint intellects to frustrate the machinations of such a foe.”

Carrier mused for a moment in silence.

“H’m!” he said after awhile, and with a sardonic laugh. “You may be right, Citizen Chauvelin. You have had experience with the rascal…you ought to know him. We won’t leave anything to chance—don’t be afraid of that. My Marats will be keen on the capture. We’ll promise commandant Fleury a thousand francs for himself and another thousand to be distributed among his men if we lay hands on the English assassins to-night. We’ll leave nothing to chance,” he reiterated with an oath.

“In which case, Citizen Carrier, you must on your side agree to two things,” rejoined Chauvelin firmly.

“What are they?”

“You must order Commandant Fleury to place himself and half a company of his Marats at my disposal.”

“What else?”

“You must allow them to lend a hand if there is an attempt to kidnap the Kernogan wench while she is being conveyed to the Rat Mort…”

Carrier hesitated for a second or two, but only for form’s sake: it was his nature whenever he was forced to yield to do so grudgingly.

“Very well!” he said at last. “I’ll order Fleury to be on the watch and to interfere if there is any street-brawling outside or near the Rat Mort. Will that suit you?”

“Perfectly. I shall be on the watch too—somewhere close by… I’ll warn commandant Fleury if I suspect that the English are making ready for a coup outside the tavern. Personally I think it unlikely—because the Duc de Kernogan will be inside the Rat Mort all the time, and he too will be the object of the Englishmen’s attacks on his behalf. Citizen Martin-Roget too has about a score or so of his friends posted outside his sister’s house: they are lads from his village who hate the Kernogans as much as he does himself. Still! I shall feel easier in my mind now that I am certain of Commandant Fleury’s co-operation.”

“Then it seems to me that we have arranged everything satisfactorily, what?”

“Everything, except the exact moment when Commandant Fleury shall advance with his men to the door of the tavern and demand admittance in the name of the Republic.”

“Yes, he will have to make quite sure that the whole of our quarry is inside the net, eh?…before he draws the strings…or all our pretty plans fall to nought.”

“As you say,” rejoined Chauvelin, “we must make sure. Supposing therefore that we get the wench safely into the tavern, that we have her there with her father, what we shall want will be some one in observation—some one who can help us draw our birds into the snare just when we are ready for them. Now there is a man whom I have in my mind: he hath name Paul Friche and is one of your Marats—a surly, ill-conditioned giant…he was on guard outside Le Bouffay this afternoon…I spoke to him…he would suit our purpose admirably.”

“What do you want him to do?”

“Only to make himself look as like a Nantese cut-throat as he can…”

“He looks like one already,” broke in Jacques Lalouλt with a laugh.

“So much the better. He’ll excite no suspicion in that case in the minds of the frequenters of the Rat Mort. Then I’ll instruct him to start a brawl—a fracas—soon after the arrival of the Kernogan wench. The row will inevitably draw the English adventurers hot-haste to the spot, either in the hope of getting the Kernogans away during the mκlιe or with a view to protecting them. As soon as they have appeared upon the scene, the half company of the Marats will descend on the house and arrest every one inside it.”

“It all sounds remarkably simple,” rejoined Carrier, and with a leer of satisfaction he turned to Jacques Lalouλt. “What think you of it, Citizen?” he asked.

“That it sounds so remarkably simple,” replied young Lalouλt, “that personally I should be half afraid…”

“Of what?” queried Chauvelin blandly.

“If you fail, Citizen Chauvelin…”

“Impossible!”

“If the Englishmen do not appear?”

“Even so the citizen proconsul will have lost nothing. He will merely have failed to gain the twenty thousand francs. But the Kernogans will still be in his power and citizen Martin-Roget’s ten thousand francs are in any case assured.”

“Friend Jean-Baptiste,” concluded Lalouλt with his habitual insolent familiarity “you had better do what Citizen Chauvelin wants. Ten thousand francs are good…and thirty better still. Our privy purse has been empty far too long, and I for one would like the handling of a few brisk notes.”

“It will only be twenty-eight, Citizen Lalouλt,” interposed Chauvelin blandly, “for Commandant Fleury will want one thousand francs and his men another thousand to stimulate their zeal. Still! I imagine that these hard times twenty-eight thousand francs are worth fighting for.”

“You seem to be fighting and planning and scheming for nothing, Citizen Chauvelin,” retorted young Lalouλt with a sneer. “What are you going to gain, I should like to know, by the capture of that dare-devil Englishman?”

“Oh!” replied Chauvelin suavely, “I shall gain the citizen proconsul’s regard, I hope—and yours too, Citizen Lalouλt. I want nothing more except the success of my plan.”

Young Lalouλt jumped down to his feet. He shrugged his shoulders and through his fine eyes shot a glance of mockery and scorn on the thin, shrunken figure of the Terrorist.

“How you do hate that Englishman, Citizen Chauvelin,” he said with a light laugh.

IV

Carrier having fully realized that he in any case stood to make a vast sum of money out of the capture of the band of English spies, gave his support generously to Chauvelin’s scheme. Fleury, summoned into is presence, was ordered to place himself and half a company of Marats at the disposal of Citizen Chauvelin. He demurred and growled like a bear with a sore head at being placed under the orders of a civilian, but it was not easy to run counter to the proconsul’s will. A good deal of swearing, one or two overt threats and the citizen commandant was reduced to submission. The promise of a thousand francs, when the reward for the capture of the English spies was paid out by a grateful government, overcame his last objections.

“I think you should rid yourself of that obstinate oaf,” was young Lalouλt’s cynical comment, when Fleury had finally left the audience chamber; “he is too argumentative for my taste.”

Chauvelin smiled quietly to himself. He cared little what became of every one of these Nantese louts once his great object had been attained.

“I need not trouble you further, Citizen Carrier,” he said as he finally rose to take his leave. “I shall have my hands full until I myself lay that meddlesome Englishman bound and gagged at your feet.”

The phrase delighted Carrier’s insensate vanity. He was overgracious to Chauvelin now.

“You shall do that at the Rat Mort, Citizen Chauvelin,” he said with marked affability, “and I myself will commend you for your zeal to the Committee of Public Safety.”

“Always supposing,” interposed Jacques Lalouλt with his cynical laugh, “that citizen Chauvelin does not let the whole rabble slip through his fingers.”

“If I do,” concluded Chauvelin dryly, “you may drag the Loire for my body to-morrow.”