Lord Tony's Wife (22 page)

Chauvelin swore and a curious hissing sound escaped his thin lips.

‘Don’t be too disappointed, citizen,’ added the man with a coarse laugh, ‘my mate picked this up at the corner of the Ruelle, when, I fancy, we were pressing the aristos pretty closely.’

He held out a small bundle of papers tied together with a piece of red ribbon: the bundle had evidently rolled in the mud, for the papers were covered with grime, Chauvelin’s thin, clawlike fingers had at once closed over them.

‘You must give me back those papers, citizen,’ said the man, ‘they are my booty. I can only give them up to citizen-captain Fleury.’

‘I’ll give them to the citizen-captain myself,’ retorted Chauvelin. ‘For the moment you had best not leave your post of duty,’ he added more peremptorily, seeing that the man made as he would follow him.

‘I take orders from no one except…’ protested the man gruffly.

‘You will take them from me now,’ broke in Chauvelin with a sudden assumption of command and authority which sat with weird strangeness upon his thin shrunken figure. ‘Go back to your post at once, ere I lodge a complain against you for neglect of duty, with the citizen proconsul.’

He turned on his heel and, without paying further heed to the man and his mutterings, he remounted the stone stairs.

‘No success, I suppose?’ queried Martin-Roget.

‘None,’ replied Chauvelin curtly.

He had the packet of papers tightly clasped in his hand. He was debating in his mind whether he would speak of them to his colleague or not.

‘What did Friche say?’ asked the latter impatiently.

‘Oh! very little. He and his mates caught sight of the strangers and followed them as far as the quays. But they were walking very fast and suddenly the Marats lost their trace in the darkness. It seemed, according to Paul Friche, as if the earth or the night had swallowed them up.’

‘And was that all?’

‘Yes. That was all.’

‘I wonder,’ added Martin-Roget with a light laugh and a careless shrug of his wide shoulders, ‘I wonder if you and I, citizen Chauvelin—and Paul Friche too for that matter–have been the victims of our nerves.’

‘I wonder,’ assented Chauvelin drily. And—quite quietly—he slipped the packet of papers in the pockets of his coat.

‘Then we may as well adjourn. There is nothing else you wish to say to me about that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel of yours?’

‘No—nothing.’

‘And you still would like to hear what the Kernogan wench will say and see how she will look when I put my final proposal to her?’

‘If you will allow me.’

‘Then come,’ said Martin-Roget. ‘My sister’s house is close by.’

In order to reach the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie the two men had to skirt the whole edifice of Le Bouffay, walk a little along the quay and turn up the narrow alley opposite the bridge. They walked on in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

The house occupied by the citizeness Adet lay back a little from the others in the street. It was one of an irregular row of mean, squalid, tumble-down houses, some of them little more than lean-to-sheds built into the walls of Le Bouffay. Most of them had overhanging roofs which stretched out like awnings more than halfway across the road, and even at midday shut out any little ray of sunshine which might have a tendency to peep into the street below.

In this year II of the Republic the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie was unpaved, dark and evil-smelling. For two thirds of the year it was ankle-deep in mud: the rest of the time the mud was baked into cakes and emitted clouds of sticky dust under the shuffling feet of the passers-by. At night it was dimly lighted by one or two broken-down lanthorns which were hung on transverse chains overhead from house to house. These lanthorns only made a very small circle of light immediately below them: the rest of the street was left in darkness save for the faint glimmer which filtrated through an occasional ill-fitting doorway or through the chinks of some insecurely fastened shutter.

The Carrefour de la Poissonnerie was practically deserted in the daytime; only a few children—miserable little atoms of humanity showing their meagre, emaciated bodies through the scanty rags which failed to cover their nakedness—played weird, mirthless games in the mud and filth of the street. But at night it became strangely peopled with vague and furtive forms that were wont to glide swiftly by, beneath the hanging lanthorns, in order to lose themselves again in the welcome obscurity beyond: men and women—ill-clothed and unshod, with hands buried in pockets or beneath scanty shawls—their feet, oft-times bare, making no sound as they went squishing through the mud. A perpetual silence used to reign in this kingdom of squalor and of darkness, where nighthawks alone fluttered their wings; only from time to time a joyless greeting of boon-companions, or the hoarse cough of some wretched consumptive would wake the dormant echoes that lingered in the gloom.

II

Martin-Roget knew his way about the murky street well enough. He went up to the house which lay a little back from the others. It appeared even more squalid than the rest, not a sound came from within—hardly a light—only a narrow glimmer found its way through the chink of a shutter on the floor above. To right and left of it the houses were tall, with walls that reeked of damp and of filth: from one of these—the one on the left—an iron sign dangled and creaked dismally as it swung in the wind. Just above the sign there was a window with partially closed shutters: through it came the sound of two husky voices raised in heated arguments.

In the open space in front of Louise Adet’s house vague forms standing about or lounging against the walls of the neighbouring houses were vaguely discernible in the gloom. Martin-Roget and Chauvelin as they approached were challenged by a raucous voice which came to them out of the inky blackness around.

‘Halt! who goes there?’

‘Friends!’ replied Martin-Roget promptly. ‘Is citizeness Adet within?’

‘Yes! she is!’ retorted the man bluntly; ‘excuse me, friend Adet—I did not know you in this confounded darkness.’

‘No harm done,’ said Martin-Roget. ‘And it is I who am grateful to you all for your vigilance.’

‘Oh!’ said the other with a laugh, ‘there’s not much fear of your bird getting out of its cage. Have no fear, friend Adet! That Kernogan rabble is well looked after.’

The small group dispersed in the darkness and Martin-Roget rapped against the door of his sister’s house with his knuckles.

‘That is the Rat Mort,’ he said, indicating the building on his left with a nod of the head. ‘A very unpleasant neighbourhood for my sister, and she has oft complained of it—but name of a dog! won’t it prove useful this night?’

Chauvelin had as usual followed his colleague in silence, but his keen eyes had not failed to note the presence of the village lads of whom Martin-Roget had spoken. There are no eyes so watchful as those of hate, nor is there aught so incorruptible. Every one of these men here had an old wrong to avenge, an old score to settle with those ci-devant Kernogans who had once been their masters and who were so completely in their power now. Louise Adet had gathered round her a far more efficient bodyguard than even the proconsul could hope to have.

A moment or two later the door was opened, softly and cautiously, and Martin-Roget asked: ‘Is that you, Louise?’ for of a truth the darkness was almost deeper within than without, and he could not see who it was that was standing by the door.

‘Yes! it is,’ replied a weary and querulous voice. ‘Enter quickly. The wind is cruel, and I can’t keep myself warm. Who is with you, Pierre?’

‘A friend,’ said Martin-Roget drily. ‘We want to see the aristo.’

The woman without further comment closed the door behind the new-comers. The place now was as dark as pitch, but she seemed to know her way about like a cat, for her shuffling footsteps were heard moving about unerringly. A moment or two later she opened another door opposite the front entrance, revealing an inner room—a sort of kitchen—which was lighted by a small lamp.

‘You can go straight up,’ she called curtly to the two men.

The narrow, winding staircase was divided from this kitchen by a wooden partition. Martin-Roget, closely followed by Chauvelin, went up the stairs. On the top of these there was a tiny landing with a door on either side of it. Martin-Roget without any ceremony pushed open the door on his right with his foot.

A tallow candle fixed in a bottle and placed in the centre of a table in the middle of the room flickered in the draught as the door flew open. It was bare of everything save a table and a chair, and a bundle of straw in one corner. The tiny window at right angles to the door was innocent of glass, and the north-westerly wind came in an icy stream through the aperture. On the table, in addition to the candle, there was a broken pitcher half-filled with water, and a small chunk of brown bread blotched with stains of mould.

On the chair beside the table and immediately facing the door sat Yvonne Lady Dewhurst. On the wall above her head a hand unused to calligraphy had traced in clumsy characters the words: ‘Libertι! Fraternitι! Egalitι!’ and below that ‘ou la Mort.’

III

The men entered the narrow room and Chauvelin carefully closed the door behind him. He at once withdrew into a remote corner of the room and stood there quite still, wrapped in his mantle, a small, silent, mysterious figure on which Yvonne fixed dark, inquiring eyes.

Martin-Roget, restless and excited, paced up and down the small space like a wild animal in a cage. From time to time exclamations of impatience escaped him and he struck one fist repeatedly against his open palm. Yvonne followed his movements with a quiet, uninterested glance, but Chauvelin paid no heed whatever to him.

He was watching Yvonne ceaselessly, and closely.

Three days’ incarceration in this wind-swept attic, the lack of decent food and of warmth, the want of sleep and the horror of her present position all following upon the soul-agony which she had endured when she was forcibly torn away from her dear milor, had left their mark on Yvonne Dewhurst’s fresh young face. The look of gravity which had always sat so quaintly on her piquant features had now changed to one of deep and abiding sorrow: her large dark eyes were circled and sunk: they had in them the unnatural glow of fever, as well as the settled look of horror and of pathetic resignation. Her soft brown hair had lost its lustre: her cheeks were drawn and absolutely colourless.

Martin-Roget paused in his restless walk. For a moment he stood silent and absorbed, contemplating by the flickering light of the candle all the havoc which his brutality had wrought upon Yvonne’s dainty face.

But Yvonne after a while ceased to look at him—she appeared to be unconscious of the gaze of these two men, each of whom was at this moment only thinking of the evil which he meant to inflict upon her—each of whom only thought of her as a helpless bird whom he had at last ensnared and whom he could crush to death as soon as he felt so inclined.

She kept her lips tightly closed and her head averted. She was gazing across at the unglazed window into the obscurity beyond, marvelling in what direction lay the sea and the shores of England.

Martin-Roget crossed his arms over his broad chest and clutched his elbows with his hands with an obvious effort to keep control over his movements and his temper in check. The quiet, almost indifferent attitude of the girl was exasperating to his over-strung nerves.

‘Look here, my girl,’ he said at last roughly and peremptorily, ‘I had an interview with the proconsul this afternoon. He chides me for my leniency toward you. Three days he thinks is far too long to keep traitors eating the bread of honest citizens and taking up valuable space in our city. Yesterday I made a proposal to you. Have you thought on it?’

Yvonne made no reply. She was still gazing out into nothingness and just at that moment she was very far away from the narrow, squalid room and the company of these two inhuman brutes. She was thinking of her dear milor and of that lovely home at Combwich wherein she had spent three such unforgettable days. She was remembering how beautiful had been the colour of the bare twigs in the chestnut coppice when the wintry sun danced through and in between them and drew fantastic patterns of living gold upon the carpet of dead leaves; and she remembered too how exquisite were the tints of russet and blue on the distant hills, and how quaintly the thrushes had called: ‘Kiss me quick!’ She saw again those trembling leaves of a delicious faintly crimson hue which still hung upon the branches of the scarlet oak, and the early flowering heath which clothed the moors with a gorgeous mantle of rosy amethyst.

Martin-Roget’s harsh voice brought her abruptly back to the hideous reality of the moment.

‘Your obstinacy will avail you nothing,’ he said, speaking quietly, even though a note of intense irritation was distinctly perceptible in his voice. ‘The proconsul has given me a further delay wherein to deal leniently with you and with your father if I am so minded. You know what I have proposed to you: Life with me as my wife—in which case your father will be free to return to England or to go to the devils as he pleases—or the death of a malefactor for you both in the company of all the thieves and evil-doers who are mouldering in the prisons of Nantes at this moment. Another delay wherein to choose between an honourable life and a shameful death. The proconsul waits. But to-night he must have his answer.’

Then Yvonne turned her head slowly and looked calmly on her enemy.

‘The tyrant who murders innocent men, women and children,’ she said, ‘can have his answer now. I choose death which is inevitable in preference to a life of shame.’

‘You seem,’ he retorted, ‘to have lost sight of the fact that the law gives me the right to take by force that which you so obstinately refuse.’

‘Have I not said,’ she replied, ‘that death is my choice? Life with you would be a life a shame.’

‘I can get a priest to marry us without your consent: and your religion forbids you to take your own life,’ he said with a sneer.