What occurred within the inner cell of the Conciergerie prison within the next half-hour of that 16th day of Pluviose in the year II of the Republic is, perhaps, too well known to history to need or bear overfull repetition.
Chroniclers intimate with the inner history of those infamous days have told us how the chief agent of the Committee of General Security gave orders one hour after midnight that hot soup, white bread and wine be served to the prisoner, who for close on fourteen days previously had been kept on short rations of black bread and water; the sergeant in charge of the guard-room watch for the night also received strict orders that that same prisoner was on no account to be disturbed until the hour of six in the morning, when he was to be served with anything in the way of breakfast that he might fancy.
All this we know, and also that citizen Heron, having given all necessary orders for the morning’s expedition, returned to the Conciergerie, and found his colleague Chauvelin waiting for him in the guard-room.
“Well?” he asked with febrile impatience—“the prisoner?”
“He seems better and stronger,” replied Chauvelin.
“Not too well, I hope?”
“No, no, only just well enough.”
“You have seen him—since his supper?”
“Only from the doorway. It seems he ate and drank hardly at all, and the sergeant had some difficulty in keeping him awake until you came.”
“Well, now for the letter,” concluded Heron with the same marked feverishness of manner which sat so curiously on his uncouth personality. “Pen, ink and paper, sergeant!” he commanded.
“On the table, in the prisoner’s cell, citizen,” replied the sergeant.
He preceded the two citizens across the guard-room to the doorway, and raised for them the iron bar, lowering it back after them.
The next moment Heron and Chauvelin were once more face to face with their prisoner.
Whether by accident or design the lamp had been so placed that as the two men approached its light fell full upon their faces, while that of the prisoner remained in shadow. He was leaning forward with both elbows on the table, his thin, tapering fingers toying with the pen and ink-horn which had been placed close to his hand.
“I trust that everything has been arranged for your comfort, Sir Percy?” Chauvelin asked with a sarcastic little smile.
“I thank you, sir,” replied Blakeney politely.
“You feel refreshed, I hope?”
“Greatly so, I assure you. But I am still demmed sleepy; and if you would kindly be brief—”
“You have not changed your mind, sir?” queried Chauvelin, and a note of anxiety, which he vainly tried to conceal, quivered in his voice.
“No, my good M. Chambertin,” replied Blakeney with the same urbane courtesy, “I have not changed my mind.”
A sigh of relief escaped the lips of both the men. The prisoner certainly had spoken in a clearer and firmer voice; but whatever renewed strength wine and food had imparted to him he apparently did not mean to employ in renewed obstinacy. Chauvelin, after a moment’s pause, resumed more calmly:
“You are prepared to direct us to the place where little Capet lies hidden?”
“I am prepared to do anything, sir, to get out of this d—d hole.”
“Very well. My colleague, citizen Heron, has arranged for an escort of twenty men picked from the best regiment of the Garde de Paris to accompany us—yourself, him and me—to wherever you will direct us. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“You must not imagine for a moment that we, on the other hand, guarantee to give you your life and freedom even if this expedition prove unsuccessful.”
“I would not venture on suggesting such a wild proposition, sir,” said Blakeney placidly.
Chauvelin looked keenly on him. There was something in the tone of that voice that he did not altogether like—something that reminded him of an evening at Calais, and yet again of a day at Boulogne. He could not read the expression in the eyes, so with a quick gesture he pulled the lamp forward so that its light now fell full on the face of the prisoner.
“Ah! that is certainly better, is it not, my dear M. Chambertin?” said Sir Percy, beaming on his adversary with a pleasant smile.
His face, though still of the same ashen hue, looked serene if hopelessly wearied; the eyes seemed to mock. But this Chauvelin decided in himself must have been a trick of his own overwrought fancy. After a brief moment’s pause he resumed dryly:
“If, however, the expedition turns out successful in every way—if little Capet, without much trouble to our escort, falls safe and sound into our hands—if certain contingencies which I am about to tell you all fall out as we wish—then, Sir Percy, I see no reason why the Government of this country should not exercise its prerogative of mercy towards you after all.”
“An exercise, my dear M. Chambertin, which must have wearied through frequent repetition,” retorted Blakeney with the same imperturbable smile.
“The contingency at present is somewhat remote; when the time comes we’ll talk this matter over.... I will make no promise... and, anyhow, we can discuss it later.”
“At present we are but wasting our valuable time over so trifling a matter.... If you’ll excuse me, sir... I am so demmed fatigued—”
“Then you will be glad to have everything settled quickly, I am sure.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Heron was taking no part in the present conversation. He knew that his temper was not likely to remain within bounds, and though he had nothing but contempt for his colleague’s courtly manners, yet vaguely in his stupid, blundering way he grudgingly admitted that mayhap it was better to allow citizen Chauvelin to deal with the Englishman. There was always the danger that if his own violent temper got the better of him, he might even at this eleventh hour order this insolent prisoner to summary trial and the guillotine, and thus lose the final chance of the more important capture.
He was sprawling on a chair in his usual slouching manner with his big head sunk between his broad shoulders, his shifty, prominent eyes wandering restlessly from the face of his colleague to that of the other man.
But now he gave a grunt of impatience.
“We are wasting time, citizen Chauvelin,” he muttered. “I have still a great deal to see to if we are to start at dawn. Get the d—d letter written, and—”
The rest of the phrase was lost in an indistinct and surly murmur. Chauvelin, after a shrug of the shoulders, paid no further heed to him; he turned, bland and urbane, once more to the prisoner.
“I see with pleasure, Sir Percy,” he said, “that we thoroughly understand one another. Having had a few hours’ rest you will, I know, feel quite ready for the expedition. Will you kindly indicate to me the direction in which we will have to travel?”
“Northwards all the way.”
“Towards the coast?”
“The place to which we must go is about seven leagues from the sea.”
“Our first objective then will be Beauvais, Amiens, Abbeville, Crecy, and so on?”
“Precisely.”
“As far as the forest of Boulogne, shall we say?”
“Where we shall come off the beaten track, and you will have to trust to my guidance.”
“We might go there now, Sir Percy, and leave you here.”
“You might. But you would not then find the child. Seven leagues is not far from the coast. He might slip through your fingers.”
“And my colleague Heron, being disappointed, would inevitably send you to the guillotine.”
“Quite so,” rejoined the prisoner placidly. “Methought, sir, that we had decided that I should lead this little expedition? Surely,” he added, “it is not so much the Dauphin whom you want as my share in this betrayal.”
“You are right as usual, Sir Percy. Therefore let us take that as settled. We go as far as Crecy, and thence place ourselves entirely in your hands.”
“The journey should not take more than three days, sir.”
“During which you will travel in a coach in the company of my friend Heron.”
“I could have chosen pleasanter company, sir; still, it will serve.”
“This being settled, Sir Percy. I understand that you desire to communicate with one of your followers.”
“Some one must let the others know... those who have the Dauphin in their charge.”
“Quite so. Therefore I pray you write to one of your friends that you have decided to deliver the Dauphin into our hands in exchange for your own safety.”
“You said just now that this you would not guarantee,” interposed Blakeney quietly.
“If all turns out well,” retorted Chauvelin with a show of contempt, “and if you will write the exact letter which I shall dictate, we might even give you that guarantee.”
“The quality of your mercy, sir, passes belief.”
“Then I pray you write. Which of your followers will have the honour of the communication?”
“My brother-in-law, Armand St. Just; he is still in Paris, I believe. He can let the others know.”
Chauvelin made no immediate reply. He paused awhile, hesitating. Would Sir Percy Blakeney be ready—if his own safety demanded it—to sacrifice the man who had betrayed him? In the momentous “either—or” that was to be put to him, by-and-by, would he choose his own life and leave Armand St. Just to perish? It was not for Chauvelin—or any man of his stamp—to judge of what Blakeney would do under such circumstances, and had it been a question of St. Just alone, mayhap Chauvelin would have hesitated still more at the present juncture.
But the friend as hostage was only destined to be a minor leverage for the final breaking-up of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel through the disgrace of its chief. There was the wife—Marguerite Blakeney—sister of St. Just, joint and far more important hostage, whose very close affection for her brother might prove an additional trump card in that handful which Chauvelin already held.
Blakeney paid no heed seemingly to the other’s hesitation. He did not even look up at him, but quietly drew pen and paper towards him, and made ready to write.
“What do you wish me to say?” he asked simply.
“Will that young blackguard answer your purpose, citizen Chauvelin?” queried Heron roughly.
Obviously the same doubt had crossed his mind. Chauvelin quickly re-assured him.
“Better than any one else,” he said firmly. “Will you write at my dictation, Sir Percy?
“I am waiting to do so, my dear sir.”
“Begin your letter as you wish, then; now continue.”
And he began to dictate slowly, watching every word as it left Blakeney’s pen.
“‘I cannot stand my present position any longer. Citizen Heron, and also M. Chauvelin—’ Yes, Sir Percy, Chauvelin, not Chambertin ... C, H, A, U, V, E, L, I, N.... That is quite right— ‘have made this prison a perfect hell for me.’”
Sir Percy looked up from his writing, smiling.
“You wrong yourself, my dear M. Chambertin!” he said; “I have really been most comfortable.”
“I wish to place the matter before your friends in as indulgent a manner as I can,” retorted Chauvelin dryly.
“I thank you, sir. Pray proceed.”
“...‘a perfect hell for me,’” resumed the other. “Have you that? ... ‘and I have been forced to give way. To-morrow we start from here at dawn; and I will guide citizen Heron to the place where he can find the Dauphin. But the authorities demand that one of my followers, one who has once been a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, shall accompany me on this expedition. I therefore ask you’—or ‘desire you’ or ‘beg you’—whichever you prefer, Sir Percy...”
“‘Ask you’ will do quite nicely. This is really very interesting, you know.”
“... ‘to be prepared to join the expedition. We start at dawn, and you would be required to be at the main gate of the house of Justice at six o’clock precisely. I have an assurance from the authorities that your life should be in-violate, but if you refuse to accompany me, the guillotine will await me on the morrow.’”
“‘The guillotine will await me on the morrow.’ That sounds quite cheerful, does it not, M. Chambertin?” said the prisoner, who had not evinced the slightest surprise at the wording of the letter whilst he wrote at the other’s dictation. “Do you know, I quite enjoyed writing this letter; it so reminded me of happy days in Boulogne.”
Chauvelin pressed his lips together. Truly now he felt that a retort from him would have been undignified, more especially as just at this moment there came from the guard room the sound of men’s voices talking and laughing, the occasional clang of steel, or of a heavy boot against the tiled floor, the rattling of dice, or a sudden burst of laughter—sounds, in fact, that betokened the presence of a number of soldiers close by.
Chauvelin contented himself with a nod in the direction of the guard-room.
“The conditions are somewhat different now,” he said placidly, “from those that reigned in Boulogne. But will you not sign your letter, Sir Percy?”
“With pleasure, sir,” responded Blakeney, as with an elaborate flourish of the pen he appended his name to the missive.
Chauvelin was watching him with eyes that would have shamed a lynx by their keenness. He took up the completed letter, read it through very carefully, as if to find some hidden meaning behind the very words which he himself had dictated; he studied the signature, and looked vainly for a mark or a sign that might convey a different sense to that which he had intended. Finally, finding none, he folded the letter up with his own hand, and at once slipped it in the pocket of his coat.
“Take care, M. Chambertin,” said Blakeney lightly; “it will burn a hole in that elegant vest of yours.”
“It will have no time to do that, Sir Percy,” retorted Chauvelin blandly; “an you will furnish me with citizen St. Just’s present address, I will myself convey the letter to him at once.”
“At this hour of the night? Poor old Armand, he’ll be abed. But his address, sir, is No. 32, Rue de la Croix Blanche, on the first floor, the door on your right as you mount the stairs; you know the room well, citizen Chauvelin; you have been in it before. And now,” he added with a loud and ostentatious yawn, “shall we all to bed? We start at dawn, you said, and I am so d—d fatigued.”
Frankly, he did not look it now. Chauvelin himself, despite his matured plans, despite all the precautions that he meant to take for the success of this gigantic scheme, felt a sudden strange sense of fear creeping into his bones. Half an hour ago he had seen a man in what looked like the last stage of utter physical exhaustion, a hunched up figure, listless and limp, hands that twitched nervously, the face as of a dying man. Now those outward symptoms were still there certainly; the face by the light of the lamp still looked livid, the lips bloodless, the hands emaciated and waxen, but the eyes!—they were still hollow, with heavy lids still purple, but in their depths there was a curious, mysterious light, a look that seemed to see something that was hidden to natural sight.
Citizen Chauvelin thought that Heron, too, must be conscious of this, but the Committee’s agent was sprawling on a chair, sucking a short-stemmed pipe, and gazing with entire animal satisfaction on the prisoner.
“The most perfect piece of work we have ever accomplished, you and I, citizen Chauvelin,” he said complacently.
“You think that everything is quite satisfactory?” asked the other with anxious stress on his words.
“Everything, of course. Now you see to the letter. I will give final orders for to-morrow, but I shall sleep in the guard-room.”
“And I on that inviting bed,” interposed the prisoner lightly, as he rose to his feet. “Your servant, citizens!”
He bowed his head slightly, and stood by the table whilst the two men prepared to go. Chauvelin took a final long look at the man whom he firmly believed he had at last brought down to abject disgrace.
Blakeney was standing erect, watching the two retreating figures—one slender hand was on the table. Chauvelin saw that it was leaning rather heavily, as if for support, and that even whilst a final mocking laugh sped him and his colleague on their way, the tall figure of the conquered lion swayed like a stalwart oak that is forced to bend to the mighty fury of an all-compelling wind.
With a sigh of content Chauvelin took his colleague by the arm, and together the two men walked out of the cell.
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