BY ORDER OF THE STATE
§1
The antechamber, wide and long, ran the whole length of Mother Théot's
apartment. Her witch's lair and the room where she had just had her
interview with Chauvelin gave directly on it on the one side, and two
other living rooms on the other. At one end of the antechamber there
were two windows, usually kept closely shuttered; and at the other was
the main entrance door, which led to landing and staircase.
The antechamber was empty. It appeared to mock Chauvelin's excitement,
with its grey-washed walls streaked with grime, its worm-eaten benches
and tarnished chandelier. Mother Théot, voluble and quaking with fear,
was close at his heels. Curtly he ordered her to be gone; her mutterings
irritated him, her obvious fear of something unknown grated unpleasantly
on his nerves. He cursed himself for his cowardice, and cursed the one
man who alone in this world had the power to unnerve him.
"I was dreaming, of course," he muttered aloud to himself between his
teeth. "I have that arch-devil, his laugh, his voice, his affectations,
on the brain!"
He was on the point of going to the main door, in order to peer out on
the landing or down the stairs, when he heard his name called
immediately behind him. Theresia Cabarrus was standing under the lintel
of the door which gave on the sybil's sanctum, her delicate hand holding
back the portière.
"Citizen Chauvelin," she said, "I was waiting for you."
"And I, citoyenne," he retorted gruffly, "had in truth forgotten you."
"Mother Théot left me alone for a while, to commune with the spirits,"
she explained.
"Ah!" he riposted, slightly sarcastic. "With what result?"
"To help you further, citizen Chauvelin," she replied; "if you have need
of me."
"Ah!" he exclaimed with a savage curse. "In truth, I have need of every
willing hand that will raise itself against mine enemy. I have need of
you, citizeness; of that old witch; of Rateau, the coalheaver; of every
patriot who will sit and watch this house, to which we have brought the
one bait that will lure the goldfish to our net."
"Have I not proved my willingness, citizen?" she retorted, with a smile.
"Think you 'tis pleasant to give up my life, my salon, my easy,
contented existence, and become a mere drudge in your service?"
"A drudge," he broke in with a chuckle, "who will soon be greater than a
Queen."
"Ah, if I thought that! . . ." she exclaimed.
"I am as sure of it as that I am alive," he replied firmly. "You will
never do anything with citizen Tallien, citoyenne. He is too mean, too
cowardly. But bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to his knees at the chariot
wheel of Robespierre, and even the crown of the Bourbons would be yours
for the asking!"
"I know that, citizen," she rejoined dryly; "else I were not here."
"We hold all the winning cards," he went on eagerly. "Lady Blakeney is
in our hands. So long as we hold her, we have the certainty that sooner
or later the English spy will establish communication with her.
Catherine Théot is a good gaoler, and Captain Boyer upstairs has a
number of men under his command--veritable sleuthhounds, whose
efficiency I can guarantee and whose eagerness is stimulated by the
promise of a magnificent reward. But experience has taught me that
accursed Scarlet Pimpernel is never so dangerous as when we think we
hold him. His extraordinary histrionic powers have been our undoing
hitherto. No man's eyes are keen enough to pierce his disguises. That is
why, citoyenne, I dragged you to England; that is why I placed you face
to face with him, and said to you, 'that is the man.' Since then, with
your help, we hold the decoy. Now you are my coadjutor and my help. In
your eyes I place my trust; in your wits, your instinct. In whatever
guise the Scarlet Pimpernel presents himself before you--and he _will_
present himself before you, or he is no longer the impudent and reckless
adventurer I know him to be!--I feel that you at least will recognise
him."
"Yes; I think I should recognise him," she mused.
"Think you that I do not appreciate the sacrifice you make--the anxiety,
the watchfulness to which you so nobly subject yourself? But 'tis you
above all who are the lure which must inevitably attract the Scarlet
Pimpernel into my hands."
"Soon, I hope," she sighed wearily.
"Soon," he asserted firmly. "I dare swear it! Until then, citizeness, in
the name of your own future, and in the name of France, I adjure you to
watch. Watch and listen! Oh, think of the stakes for which we are
playing, you and I! Bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to his knees, citoyenne,
and Robespierre will be as much your slave as he is now the prey to a
strange dread of that one man. Robespierre fears the Scarlet Pimpernel.
A superstitious conviction has seized hold of him that the English spy
will bring about his downfall. We have all seen of late how aloof he
holds himself. He no longer attends the Committees. He no longer goes to
the Clubs; he shuns his friends; and his furtive glance is for ever
trying to pierce some imaginary disguise, under which he alternately
fears and hopes to discover his arch-enemy. He dreads assassination,
anonymous attacks. In every obscure member of the Convention who walks
up the steps of the tribune, he fears to find the Scarlet Pimpernel
under a new, impenetrable mask. Ah, citoyenne! what influence you would
have over him if through your agency all those fears could be drowned in
the blood of that abominable Englishman!"
"Now, who would have thought that?" a mocking voice broke in suddenly,
with a quiet chuckle. "I vow, my dear M. Chambertin, you are waxing more
eloquent than ever before!"
Like the laughter of a while ago, the voice seemed to come from nowhere.
It was in the air, muffled by the clouds of Mother Théot's perfumes, or
by the thickness of doors and tapestries. Weird, yet human.
"By Satan, this is intolerable!" Chauvelin exclaimed, and paying no heed
to Theresia's faint cry of terror, he ran to the main door. It was on
the latch. He tore it open and dashed out upon the landing.
§2
From here a narrow stone staircase, dank and sombre, led downwards as
well as upwards, in a spiral. The house had only the two stories,
perched above some disused and dilapidated storage-rooms, to which a
double outside door and wicket gave access from the street.
The staircase received its only light from a small window high up in the
roof, the panes of which were coated with grime, so that the well of the
stairs, especially past the first-floor landing, was almost in complete
gloom. For an instant Chauvelin hesitated. Never a coward physically, he
yet had no mind to precipitate himself down a dark staircase when mayhap
his enemy was lying in wait for him down below.
Only for an instant however. The very next second had brought forth the
positive reflection: "Bah! Assassination, and in the dark, are not the
Englishman's ways."
Scarce a few yards from where he stood, the other side of the door, was
the dry moat which ran round the Arsenal. From there, at a call from
him, a dozen men and more would surge from the ground--sleuthhounds, as
he had told Theresia a moment ago, who were there on the watch and whom
he could trust to do his work swiftly and securely--if only he could
reach the door and call for help. Elusive as that accursed Pimpernel
was, successful chase might even now be given to him.
Chauvelin ran down half a dozen steps, peered down the shaft of the
staircase, and spied a tiny light, which moved swiftly to and fro. Then
presently, below the light a bit of tallow candle, then a grimy hand
holding the candle, an arm, the top of a shaggy head crowned by a greasy
red cap, a broad back under a tattered blue jersey. He heard the thump
of heavy soles upon the stone flooring below, and a moment or two later
the weird, sepulchral sound of a churchyard cough. Then the light
disappeared. For a second or two the darkness appeared more impenetrably
dense; then one or two narrow streaks of daylight showed the position of
the outside door. Something prompted him to call:
"Is that you, citizen Rateau?"
It was foolish, of course. And the very next moment he had his answer. A
voice--the mocking voice he knew so well--called up to him in reply:
"At your service, dear M. Chambertin! Can I do anything for you?"
Chauvelin swore, threw all prudence to the winds, and ran down the
stairs as fast as his shaking knees would allow him. Some three steps
from the bottom he paused for the space of a second, like one turned to
stone by what he saw. Yet it was simple enough: just the same tiny
light, the grimy hand holding the tallow candle, the shaggy head with
the greasy red cap. . . . The figure in the gloom looked preternaturally
large, and the flickering light threw fantastic shadows on the face and
neck of the colossus, distorting the nose to a grotesque length and the
chin to weird proportions.
The next instant Chauvelin gave a cry like an enraged bull and hurled
his meagre person upon the giant, who, shaken at the moment by a tearing
fit of coughing, was taken unawares and fell backwards, overborne by the
impact, dropping the light as he fell and still wheezing pitiably whilst
trying to give vent to his feelings by vigorous curses.
Chauvelin, vaguely surprised at his own strength or the weakness of his
opponent, pressed his knee against the latter's chest, gripped him by
the throat, smothering his curses and wheezes, turning the funereal
cough into agonised gasps.
"At my service, in truth, my gallant Pimpernel!" he murmured hoarsely,
feeling his small reserve of strength oozing away by the strenuous
effort. "What you can do for me? Wait here, until I have you bound and
gagged, safe against further mischief!"
His victim had in fact given a last convulsive gasp, lay now at full
length upon the stone floor, with arms outstretched, motionless.
Chauvelin relaxed his grip. His strength was spent, he was bathed in
sweat, his body shook from head to foot. But he was triumphant! His
mocking enemy, carried away by his own histrionics, had overtaxed his
colossal strength. The carefully simulated fit of coughing had taken
away his breath at the critical moment; the surprise attack had done the
rest; and Chauvelin--meagre, feeble, usually the merest human insect
beside the powerful Englishman--had conquered by sheer pluck and
resource.
There lay the Scarlet Pimpernel, who had assumed the guise of asthmatic
Rateau once too often, helpless and broken beneath the weight of the man
whom he had hoodwinked and derided. And now at last all the intrigues,
the humiliations, the schemes and the disappointments, were at an end.
He--Chauvelin--free and honoured: Robespierre his grateful servant.
A wave of dizziness passed over his brain--the dizziness of coming
glory. His senses reeled. When he staggered to his feet he could
scarcely stand. The darkness was thick around him; only two streaks of
daylight at right angles to one another came through the chinks of the
outside door and vaguely illumined the interior of the dilapidated
store-room, the last step or two of the winding stairway, the row of
empty barrels on one side, the pile of rubbish on the other, and on the
stone floor the huge figure in grimy and tattered rags, lying prone and
motionless. Guided by those streaks of light, Chauvelin lurched up to
the door, fumbled for the latch of the wicket-gate, and finding it
pulled the gate open and almost fell out into the open.
§3
The Rue de la Planchette was as usual lonely and deserted. It was a
second or two before Chauvelin spied a passer-by. That minute he spent
in calling for help with all his might. The passer-by he quickly
dispatched across to the Arsenal for assistance.
"In the name of the Republic!" he said solemnly.
But already his cries had attracted the attention of the sentries.
Within two or three minutes, half a dozen men of the National Guard were
speeding down the street. Soon they had reached the house, the door
where Chauvelin, still breathless but with his habitual official manner
that brooked of no argument, gave them hasty instructions.
"The man lying on the ground in there," he commanded. "Seize him and
raise him. Then one of you find some cord and bind him securely."
The men flung the double doors wide open. A flood of light illumined the
store-room. There lay the huge figure on the floor, no longer
motionless, but trying to scramble to its feet, once more torn by a fit
of coughing. The men ran up to him; one of them laughed.
"Why, if it isn't old Rateau!"
They lifted him up by his arms. He was helpless as a child, and his face
was of a dull purple colour.
"He will die!" another man said, with an indifferent shrug of the
shoulders.
But, in a way, they were sorry for him. He was one of themselves.
Nothing of the aristo about asthmatic old Rateau!
"Hast thou been playing again at being an English milor, poor old
Rateau?" another man asked compassionately.
They had succeeded in propping him up and sitting him down upon a barrel
His fit of coughing was subsiding. He had breath enough now to swear. He
raised his head and encountered the pale eyes of citizen Chauvelin fixed
as if sightlessly upon him.
"Name of a dog!" he began; but got no farther. Giddiness seized him, for
he was weak from coughing and from that strangling grip round his
throat, after he had been attacked in the darkness and thrown violently
to the ground.
The men around him recoiled at sight of citizen Chauvelin. His
appearance was almost death-like. His cheeks and lips were livid; his
hair dishevelled; his eyes of an unearthly paleness. One hand, claw-like
and shaking, he held out before him, as if to ward off some horrible
apparition.
This trance-like state made up of a ghastly fear and a sense of the most
hideous, most unearthly impotence, lasted for several seconds. The men
themselves were frightened. Unable to understand what had happened, they
thought that citizen Chauvelin, whom they all knew by sight, had
suddenly lost his reason or was possessed of a devil. For in truth there
was nothing about poor old Rateau to frighten a child!
Fortunately the tension was over before real panic had seized on any of
them. The next moment Chauvelin had pulled himself together with one of
those mighty efforts of will of which strong natures are always capable.
With an impatient gesture he passed his hand across his brow, then
backwards and forwards in front of his face, as if to chase away the
demon of terror that obsessed him. He gazed on Rateau for a moment or
two, his eyes travelling over the uncouth, semi-conscious figure of the
coalheaver with a searching, undefinable glance. Then, as if suddenly
struck with an idea, he spoke to the man nearest him:
"Sergeant Chazot? Is he at the Arsenal?"
"Yes, citizen," the man replied.
"Run across quickly then," Chauvelin continued; "and bring him hither at
once."
The soldier obeyed, and a few more minutes--ten, perhaps--went by in
silence. Rateau, weary, cursing, not altogether in full possession of
his faculties, sat huddled upon the barrel, his bleary eyes following
every movement of citizen Chauvelin with an anxious, furtive gaze. The
latter was pacing up and down the stone floor, like a caged, impatient
animal. From time to time he paused, either to peer out into the open in
the direction of the Arsenal, or to search the dark angles of the
store-room, kicking the piles of rubbish about with his foot.
§4
Anon he uttered a sigh of satisfaction. The soldier had returned, was
even now in the doorway with a comrade--a short, thick-set,
powerful-looking fellow--beside him.
"Sergeant Chazot!" Chauvelin said abruptly.
"At your commands, citizen!" the sergeant replied, and at a sign from
the other followed him to the most distant corner of the room.
"Bend your ear and listen," Chauvelin murmured peremptorily. "I don't
want those fools to hear." And, having assured himself that he and
Chazot could speak without being overheard, he pointed to Rateau, then
went on rapidly: "You will take this lout over to the cavalry barracks.
See the veterinary. Tell him----"
He paused, as if unable to proceed. His lips were trembling, his face,
ashen-white, looked spectral in the gloom. Chazot, not understanding,
waited patiently.
"That lout," Chauvelin resumed more steadily after a while, "is in
collusion with a gang of dangerous English spies. One Englishman
especially--tall, and a master of histrionics--uses this man as a kind
of double. Perhaps you heard . . .?"
Chazot nodded.
"I know, citizen," he said sagely. "The Fraternal Supper in the Rue St.
Honoré. Comrades have told me that no one could tell who was Rateau the
coalheaver and who the English milor."
"Exactly!" Chauvelin rejoined dryly, quite firmly now. "Therefore, I
want to make sure. The veterinary, you understand? He brands the horses
for the cavalry. I want a brand on this lout's arm. Just a letter . . .
a distinguishing mark . . ."
Chazot gave an involuntary gasp.
"But, citizen----!" he exclaimed.
"Eh? What?" the other retorted sharply. "In the service of the Republic
there is no 'but,' sergeant Chazot."
"I know that, citizen," Chazot, abashed, murmured humbly. "I only meant
. . . it seems so strange . . ."
"Stranger things than that occur every day in Paris, my friend,"
Chauvelin said dryly. "We brand horses that are the property of the
State; why not a man? Time may come," he added with a vicious snarl,
"when the Republic may demand that every loyal citizen carry--indelibly
branded in his flesh and by order of the State--the sign of his own
allegiance."
"'Tis not for me to argue, citizen," Chazot rejoined, with a careless
shrug of the shoulders. "If you tell me to take citizen Rateau over to
the veterinary at the cavalry barracks and have him branded like cattle,
why . . ."
"Not like cattle, citizen," Chauvelin broke in blandly. "You shall
commence proceedings by administering to citizen Rateau a whole bottle
of excellent eau de vie, at the Government's expense. Then, when he is
thoroughly and irretrievably drunk, the veterinary will put the brand
upon his left forearm . . . just one letter. . . . Why, the drunken
reprobate will never feel it!"
"As you command, citizen," Chazot assented with perfect indifference. "I
am not responsible. I do as I'm told."
"Like the fine soldier that you are, citizen Chazot!" Chauvelin
concluded. "And I know that I can trust to your discretion."
"Oh, as to that----!"
"It would not serve you to be otherwise; that's understood. So now, my
friend, get you gone with the lout; and take these few words of
instruction with you, for the citizen veterinary."
He took tablet and point from his pocket and scribbled a few words;
signed it "Chauvelin" with that elegant flourish which can be traced to
this day on so many secret orders that emanated from the Committee of
Public Safety during the two years of its existence.
Chazot took the written order and slipped it into his pocket. Then he
turned on his heel and briefly gave the necessary orders to the men.
Once more they hoisted the helpless giant up on his feet. Rateau was
willing enough to go. He was willing to do anything so long as they took
him away from here, away from the presence of that small devil with the
haggard face and the pale, piercing eyes. He allowed himself to be
conducted out of the building without a murmur.
Chauvelin watched the little party--the six men, the asthmatic
coalheaver and lastly the sergeant--file out of the place, then cross
the Rue de la Planchette and take the turning opposite, the one that led
through the Porte and the Rue St. Antoine to the cavalry barracks in the
Quartier Bastille. After which, he carefully closed the double outside
doors and, guided by instinct since the place down here was in darkness
once more, he groped his way to the foot of the stairs and slowly
mounted to the floor above.
§5
He reached the first-floor landing. The door which led into Mother
Théot's apartments was on the latch, and Chauvelin had just stretched
out his hand with a view to pushing it open, when the door swung out on
its hinges, as if moved by an invisible hand, and a pleasant, mocking
voice immediately behind him said, with grave politeness:
"Allow me, my dear M. Chambertin!"