Lord Tony's Wife (24 page)

‘It would be simpler,’ here interposed Louise roughly, ‘if we were to knock the wench on the head and then let the lads carry her across.’

‘It would not be simpler,’ retorted Chauvelin drily, ‘for Carrier might at any moment turn against us. Commandant Fleury with half a company of Marats will be posted round the Rat Mort, remember. They may interfere with the lads and arrest them and snatch the wench from us, when all our plans may fall to the ground…one never knows what double game Carrier may be playing. No! no! the girl must not be dragged or carried to the Rat Mort. She must walk into the trap of her own free will.’

‘But name of a dog! how is it to be done?’ ejaculated Martin-Roget, and he brought his clenched fist crashing down upon the table. ‘The woman will not follow me—or Louise either—anywhere willingly.’

‘She must follow a stranger then—one whom she thinks is a stranger—some one who will have gained her confidence…’

‘Impossible.’

‘Oh! nothing is impossible, citizen,’ rejoined Chauvelin blandly.

‘Do you know a way then?’ queried the other with a sneer.

‘I think I do. If you will trust me that is–’

‘I don’t know that I do. Your mind is so intent on those English adventurers, you are like as not to let the aristos slip through your fingers.’

‘Well, citizen,’ retorted Chauvelin imperturbably, ‘will you take the risk of conveying the fair Yvonne to the Rat Mort by twelve o’clock to-night? I have very many things to see to, I confess that I should be glad if you will ease me from that responsibility.’

‘I have already told you that I see no way,’ retorted Martin-Roget with a snarl.

‘Then why not let me act?’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘For the moment I am going for a walk on the quay and once more will commune with the North-West wind.’

‘Tshaw!’ ejaculated Martin-Roget savagely.

‘Nay, citizen,’ resumed Chauvelin blandly, ‘the winds of heaven are excellent counsellors. I told you so just now and you agreed with me. They blow away the cobwebs of the mind and clear the brain for serious thinking. You want the Kernogan girl to be arrested inside the Rat Mort and you see no way of conveying her thither save by the use of violence, which for obvious reasons is to be deprecated: Carrier, for equally obvious reasons, will not have her taken to the place by force. On the other hand you admit that the wench would not follow you willingly—Well, citizen, we must find a way out of that impasse, for it is too unimportant an one to stand in the way of our plans: for this I must hold a consultation with the North-West wind.’

‘I won’t allow you to do anything without consulting me.’

‘Am I likely to do that? To begin with I shall have need of your co-operation and that of the citizeness.’

‘In that case…’ muttered Martin-Roget grudgingly. ‘But remember,’ he added with a return to his usual self-assured manner, ‘remember that Yvonne and her father belong to me and not to you. I brought them into Nantes for mine own purposes—not for yours. I will not have my revenge jeopardized so that your schemes may be furthered.’

‘Who spoke of my schemes, citizen Martin-Roget?’ broke in Chauvelin with perfect urbanity. ‘Surely not I? What am I but an humble tool in the service of the Republic?…a tool that has proved useless—a failure, what? My only desire is to help you to the best of my abilities. Your enemies are the enemies of the Republic: my ambition is to help you in destroying them.’

For a moment longer Martin-Roget hesitated: he abominated this suggestion of becoming a mere instrument in the hands of this man whom he still would have affected to despise—had he dared. But here came the difficulty: he no longer dared to despise Chauvelin. He felt the strength of the man—the clearness of his intellect, and though he—Martin-Roget—still chose to disregard every warning in connexion with the English spies, he could not wholly divest his mind from the possibility of their presence in Nantes. Carrier’s scheme was so magnificent, so satisfying, that the ex-miller’s son was ready to humble his pride and set his arrogance aside in order to see it carried through successfully.

So after a moment or two, despite the fact that he positively ached to shut Chauvelin out of the whole business, Martin-Roget gave a grudging assent to his proposal.

‘Very well!’ he said, ‘you see to it. So long as it does not interfere with my plans…’

‘It can but help them,’ rejoined Chauvelin suavely. ‘If you will act as I shall direct I pledge you my word that the wench will walk to the Rat Mort of her free will and at the hour when you want her. What else is there to say?’

‘When and where shall we meet again?’

‘Within the hour I will return here and explain to you and to the citizeness what I want you to do. We will get the aristos inside the Rat Mort, never fear; and after that I think that we may safely leave Carrier to do the rest, what?’

He picked up his hat and wrapped his mantle round him. He took no further heed of Martin-Roget or of Louise, for suddenly he had felt the crackling of crisp paper inside the breast-pocket of his coat and in a moment the spirit of the man had gone a-roaming out of the narrow confines of this squalid abode. It had crossed the English Channel and wandered once more into a brilliantly-lighted ball-room where an exquisitely dressed dandy declaimed inanities and doggrel rhymes for the delectation of a flippant assembly: it heard once more the lazy, drawling speech, the inane, affected laugh, it caught the glance of a pair of lazy, grey eyes fixed mockingly upon him. Chauvelin’s thin clawlike hand went back to his pocket: it felt that packet of papers, it closed over it like a vulture’s talon does upon a prey. He no longer heard Martin-Roget’s obstinate murmurings, he no longer felt himself to be the disgraced, humiliated servant of the State: rather did he feel once more the master, the leader, the successful weaver of an hundred clever intrigues. The enemy who had baffled him so often had chosen once more to throw down the glove of mocking defiance. So be it! The battle would be fought this night—a decisive one—and long live the Republic and the power of the people!

With a curt nod of the head Chauvelin turned on his heel and without waiting for Martin-Roget to follow him, or for Louise to light him on his way, he strode from the room, and out of the house, and had soon disappeared in the darkness in the direction of the quay.

V

Once more free from the encumbering companionship of Martin-Roget, Chauvelin felt free to breathe and to think. He, the obscure and impassive servant of the Republic, the cold-blooded Terrorist who had gone through every phase of an exciting career without moving a muscle of his grave countenance, felt as if every one of his arteries was on fire. He strode along the quay in the teeth of the north-westerly wind, grateful for the cold blast which lashed his face and cooled his throbbing temples.

The packet of papers inside his coat seemed to sear his breast.

Before turning to go along the quay he paused, hesitating for a moment what he would do. His very humble lodgings were at the far end of the town, and every minute of time was precious. Inside Le Bouffay, where he had a small room allotted to him as a minor representative in Nantes of the Committee of Public Safety, there was the ever present danger of prying eyes.

On the whole—since time was so precious—he decided on returning to Le Bouffay. The concierge and the clerk fortunately let him through without those official delays which he—Chauvelin—was wont to find so galling ever since his disgrace had put a bar against the opening of every door at the bare mention of his name or the display of his tricolour scarf.

He strode rapidly across the hall: the men on guard eyed him with lazy indifference as he passed. Once inside his own sanctum he looked carefully around him; he drew the curtain closer across the window and dragged the table and a chair well away from the range which might be covered by an eye at the keyhole. It was only when he had thoroughly assured himself that no searching eye or inquisitive ear could possibly be watching over him that he at last drew the precious packet of papers from his pocket. He undid the red ribbon which held it together and spread the papers out on the table before him. Then he examined them carefully one by one.

As he did so an exclamation of wrath or of impatience escaped him from time to time, once he laughed—involuntarily—aloud.

The examination of the papers took him some time. When he had finished he gathered them all together again, retied the bit of ribbon round them and slipped the packet back into the pocket of his coat. There was a look of grim determination on his face, even though a bitter sigh escaped his set lips.

‘Oh! for the power,’ he muttered to himself, ‘which I had a year ago! for the power to deal with mine enemy myself. So you have come to Nantes, my valiant Sir Percy Blakeney?’ he added while a short, sardonic laugh escaped his thin, set lips: ‘and you are determined that I shall know how and why you came! Do you reckon, I wonder, that I have no longer the power to deal with you? Well!…’

He sighed again but with more satisfaction this time.

‘Well!…’ he reiterated with obvious complacency. ‘Unless that oaf Carrier is a bigger fool than I imagine him to be I think I have you this time, my elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.’

It was not an easy thing to obtain an audience of the great proconsul at this hour of the night, nor was Chauvelin, the disgraced servant of the Committee of Public Safety, a man to be considered. Carrier, with his love of ostentation and of tyranny, found great delight in keeping his colleagues waiting upon his pleasure, and he knew that he could trust young Jacques Lalouλt to be as insolent as any tyrant’s flunkey of yore.

“I must speak with the proconsul at once,” had been Chauvelin’s urgent request of Fleury, the commandant of the great man’s bodyguard.

“The proconsul dines at this hour,” had been Fleury’s curt reply.

“‘Tis a matter which concerns the welfare and the safety of the State!”

“The proconsul’s health is the concern of the State too, and he dines at this hour and must not be disturbed.”

“Commandant Fleury!” urged Chauvelin, “you risk being implicated in a disaster. Danger and disgrace threaten the proconsul and all his adherents. I must speak with Citizen Carrier at once.”

Fortunately for Chauvelin there were two keys which, when all else failed, were apt to open the doors of Carrier’s stronghold: the key of fear and that of cupidity. He tried both and succeeded. He bribed and he threatened: he endured Fleury’s brutality and Lalouλt’s impertinence but he got his way. After an hour’s weary waiting and ceaseless parleyings he was once more ushered into the ante-chamber where he had sat earlier in the day. The doors leading to the inner sanctuary were open. Young Jacques Lalouλt stood by them on guard. Carrier, fuming and raging at having been disturbed, vented his spleen and ill-temper on Chauvelin.

“If the news that you bring me is not worth my consideration,” he cried savagely, “I’ll send you to the moulder in Le Bouffay or to drink the waters of the Loire.”

Chauvelin silent, self-effaced, allowed the flood of the great man’s wrath to spend itself in threats. Then he said quietly:

“Citizen Proconsul I have come to tell you that the English spy, who is called the Scarlet Pimpernel, is now in Nantes. There is a reward of twenty thousand francs for his capture and I want your help to lay him by the heels.”

Carrier suddenly paused in his ravings. He sank into a chair and a livid hue spread over his face.

“It’s not true!” he murmured hoarsely.

“I saw him—not an hour ago…”

“What proof have you?”

“I’ll show them to you—but not across this threshold. Let me enter, Citizen Proconsul, and close your sanctuary doors behind me rather than before. What I have come hither to tell you, can only be said between four walls.”

“I’ll make you tell me,” broke in Carrier in a raucous voice, which excitement and fear caused almost to choke in his throat. “I’ll make you…curse you for the traitor that you are…Curse you!” he cried more vigorously, “I’ll make you speak. Will you shield a spy by your silence, you miserable traitor? If you do I’ll send you to rot in the mud of the Loire with other traitors less accursed than yourself.”

“If you only knew,” was Chauvelin’s calm rejoinder to the other’s ravings, “how little I care for life. I only live to be even one day with an enemy whom I hate. That enemy is now in Nantes, but I am like a bird of prey whose wings have been clipped. If you do not help me mine enemy will again go free—and death in that case matters little or nothing to me.”

For a moment longer Carrier hesitated. Fear had gripped him by the throat. Chauvelin’s earnestness seemed to vouch for the truth of his assertion, and if this were so—if those English spies were indeed in Nantes—then his own life was in deadly danger. He—like every one of those bloodthirsty tyrants who had misused the sacred names of Fraternity and of Equality—had learned to dread the machinations of those mysterious Englishmen and of their unconquerable leader. Popular superstition had it that they were spies of the English Government and that they were not only bent on saving traitors from well-merited punishment but that they were hired assassins paid by Mr. Pitt to murder every faithful servant of the Republic. The name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, so significantly uttered by Chauvelin, had turned Carrier’s sallow cheeks to a livid hue. Sick with terror now he called Lalouλt to him. He clung to the boy with both arms as to the one being in this world whom he trusted.

“What shall we do, Jacques?” he murmured hoarsely, “shall we let him in?”

The boy roughly shook himself free from the embrace of the great proconsul.

“If you want twenty thousand francs,” he said with a dry laugh, “I should listen quietly to what Citizen Chauvelin has to say.”

Terror and rapacity were ranged on one side against inordinate vanity. The thought of twenty thousand francs made Carrier’s ugly mouth water. Money was over scarce these days: also the fear of assassination was a spectre which haunted him at all hours of the day and night. On the other hand he positively worshipped the mystery wherewith he surrounded himself. It had been his boast for some time now that no one save the chosen few had crossed the threshold of his private chamber: and he was miserably afraid not only of Chauvelin’s possible evil intentions, but also that this despicable ex-aristo and equally despicable failure would boast in the future of an ascendancy over him.