CHAUVELIN
§1
Theresia had opposed a stern refusal to Pepita's request that she might
put her mistress to bed before she herself went to rest. She did not
want to go to bed; she wanted to think. And now that that peculiar air
of mystery, that silence and semi-darkness no longer held their gruesome
sway in her apartment, she did not feel afraid.
Pepita went to bed. For awhile, Theresia could hear her moving about,
with ponderous, shuffling footsteps; then, presently everything was
still. The clock of old St. Roch struck three. Not much more than half
an hour had gone by since her guests had departed. To Theresia it seemed
like an infinity of time. The sense of a baffling mystery being at work
around her had roused her ire and killed all latent fear.
But what was the mystery?
And was there a mystery at all? Or was Pepita's rational explanation of
the occurrence of this night the right one after all?
Citoyenne Cabarrus, unable to sit still, wandered up and down the
passage, in and out of the kitchen; in and out of her bedroom, and
thence into the vestibule. Then back again. At one moment, when standing
in the vestibule, she thought she heard some one moving on the landing
outside the front door. Her heart beat a little more rapidly, but she
was not afraid. She did not believe in housebreakers and she felt that
Pepita, who was a very light sleeper, was well within call.
So she went to the front door and opened it. The quick cry which she
gave was one of surprise rather than of fear. In her belated visitor she
had recognised citizen Chauvelin; and somehow, by a vague process of
reasoning, his presence just at this moment seemed quite rational--in
keeping with the unsolved mystery that was so baffling to the fair
Theresia.
"May I come in, citoyenne?" Chauvelin said in a whisper. "It is late, I
know; but there is urgency."
He was standing on the threshold, and she, a few paces away from him in
the vestibule. The candle, which now burned low in its socket, was
behind her. Its light touched with a weird, flickering glow the pale
face of the once noted Terrorist, with its pale eyes and sharply hooked
nose, which gave him the air of a gaunt bird of prey.
"It is late," she murmured vaguely. "What do you want?"
"Something has happened," he replied, still speaking below his breath.
"Something which concerns you. And, before speaking of it to citizen
Robespierre----"
At the dread name Theresia stepped farther back into the vestibule.
"Enter!" she said curtly.
He came in, and she closed the door carefully behind him. Then she led
the way into the withdrawing room and turned up the wick of the lamp
under its rosy shade. She sat down and motioned to him to do the same.
"What is it?" she asked.
Before replying, Chauvelin's finger and thumb--thin and pointed like the
talons of a vulture--went fumbling in the pocket of his waistcoat. From
it he extracted a small piece of neatly folded paper.
"When we left your apartment, citoyenne--my friend St. Just and I
supporting poor palsied Couthon, and Robespierre following close behind
us--I spied this scrap of paper, which St. Just's careless foot had just
kicked to one side when he was stepping across the threshold. Some
unknown hand must have insinuated it underneath the door. Now, I never
despise stray bits of paper. I have had so many through my hands that
proved after examination to be of paramount importance. So, whilst the
others were busy with their own affairs I, unseen by them, had already
stooped and picked the paper up."
He paused for a moment or two, then, satisfied that he held the
beautiful woman's undivided attention, he went on in his habitual, dry,
urbane monotone:
"Now, though I was quite sure in my own mind, citoyenne, that this
billet-doux was intended for your fair hands, I felt that, as its
finder, I had some sort of lien upon it----"
"To the point, citizen, I pray you!" Theresia broke in harshly, tried by
a show of impatience and of fatigue to hide the anxiety which had once
more taken possession of her heart. "You found a letter addressed to me;
you read it. As you have brought it here, I presume that you wish me to
know its contents. So get on, man, get on!" she added more vehemently.
"It is not at three in the morning that one cares for dalliance."
By way of a reply, Chauvelin slowly unfolded the note and began to read:
"'Bertrand Moncrif is a young fool, but he is too good to be the
plaything of a sleek black pantheress, however beautiful she might be.
So I am taking him away to England where, in the arms of his
long-suffering and loyal sweetheart, he will soon forget the brief
madness which so nearly landed him on the guillotine and made of him a
tool to serve the selfish whims of Theresia Cabarrus.'"
Theresia had listened to the brief, enigmatic epistle without displaying
the slightest sign of emotion or surprise. Now, when Chauvelin had
finished reading, and with his strange, dry smile handed her the tiny
note, she took it and for awhile contemplated it in silence, her face
perfectly placid save for a curious and ominous contraction of the brows
and a screwing-up of the fine eyes, which gave her a curious, snake-like
expression.
"You know, of course, citoyenne," Chauvelin said after awhile, "who the
writer of this--shall we say?--impudent epistle happens to be?"
She nodded.
"The man," he went on placidly, "who goes by the name of the Scarlet
Pimpernel. The impudent English adventurer whom citizen Robespierre has
asked _you_ citoyenne, to lure into the net which we may spread for
him."
Still Theresia was silent. She did not look at Chauvelin, but kept her
eyes fixed upon the scrap of paper, which she had folded into a long,
narrow ribbon and was twining in and out between her fingers.
"A while ago, citoyenne," Chauvelin continued, "in this very room, you
refused to lend us a helping hand."
Still no reply from Theresia. She had just smoothed out the mysterious
epistle, carefully folded it into four, and was in the act of slipping
it into the bosom of her gown. Chauvelin waited quite patiently. He was
accustomed to waiting, and patience was an integral part of his stock in
trade. Opportunism was another.
Theresia was sitting on her favourite settee, leaning forward with her
hands clasped between her knees. Her head was bent, and the tiny
rose-shaded lamp failed to throw its glimmer of light upon her face. The
clock on the mantelshelf behind her was ticking with insentient
monotony. Anon, a distant chime struck the quarter after three.
Whereupon Chauvelin rose.
"I think we understand one another, citoyenne," he said quietly, and
with a sigh of complete satisfaction. "It is late now. At what hour may
I have the privilege of seeing you alone?"
"At three in the afternoon?" she replied tonelessly, like one speaking
in a dream. "Citizen Tallien is always at the Convention then, and my
door will be denied to everybody else."
"I'll be here at three o'clock," was Chauvelin's final word.
Theresia had not moved. He made her a deep bow and went out of the room.
The next moment the opening and shutting of the outer door proclaimed
that he had gone. After that, Theresia Cabarrus went to bed.