TERROR OR AMBITION
§1
Chauvelin had sufficiently recovered from the emotions of the past
half-hour to speak coolly and naturally to Theresia. Whether he knew
that she had waylaid Sir Percy Blakeney on the stairs or no, she could
not conjecture. He made no reference to his interview with the Scarlet
Pimpernel, nor did he question her directly as to whether she had
overheard what passed between them.
Certainly his attitude was a more dictatorial one than it had been
before. Some of his first words to her contained a veiled menace.
Whether the sense of coming triumph gave him a fresh measure of that
arrogance which past failures had never wholly subdued, or whether
terror for the future caused him to bluster and to threaten, it were
impossible to say.
"Vigilance!" he said to Theresia, after a curt greeting. "Incessant
vigilance, night and day, is what your country demands of you now,
citizeness! All our lives now depend upon our vigilance."
"Yours perhaps, citizen," she rejoined coolly. "You seem to forget that
I am not bound----"
"You? Not bound?" he broke in roughly, and with a strident laugh. "Not
bound to aid in bringing the most bitter enemy of your country to his
knees? Not bound, now that success is in sight?"
"You only obtained my help by a subterfuge," she retorted; "by a forged
letter and a villainous lie----"
"Bah! Are you going to tell me, citizeness, that all means are not
justifiable when dealing with those whose hands are raised against
France? Forgery?" he went on, with passionate earnestness. "Why not?
Outrage? Murder? I would commit every crime in order to serve the
country which I love and hound her enemies to death. The only crime that
is unjustifiable, citoyenne, is indifference. You? Not bound? Wait!
Wait, I say! And if by your indifference or your apathy we fail once
more to bring that elusive enemy to book, wait then until you stand at
the bar of the people's tribunal, and in the face of France, who called
to you for help, of France, who, beset by a hundred foes, stretched
appealing arms to you, her daughter, you turned a deaf ear to her
entreaties, and, shrugging your fair shoulders, calmly pleaded, 'Bah! I
was not bound!'"
He paused, carried away by his own enthusiasm, feeling perhaps that he
had gone too far, or else had said enough to enforce the obedience which
he exacted. After awhile, since Theresia remained silent too, he added
more quietly:
"If we capture the Scarlet Pimpernel this time, citizeness, Robespierre
shall know from my lips that it is to you and to you alone that he owes
his triumph over the enemy whom he fears above all. Without you, I could
not have set the trap out of which he cannot now escape."
"He can escape! He can!" she retorted defiantly. "The Scarlet Pimpernel
is too clever, too astute, too audacious, to fall into your trap."
"Take care, citoyenne, take care! Your admiration for that elusive hero
carries you beyond the bounds of prudence."
"Bah! If he escapes, 'tis you who will be blamed-----"
"And 'tis you who will suffer, citoyenne," he riposted blandly. With
which parting shaft he left her, certain that she would ponder over his
threats as well as over his bold promise of a rich reward.
Terror and ambition! Death, or the gratitude of Robespierre! How well
did Chauvelin gauge the indecision, the shallowness of a fickle woman's
heart! Theresia, left to herself, had only those two alternatives over
which to ponder. Robespierre's gratitude, which meant that the
admiration which already he felt for her would turn to stronger passion.
He was still heart-whole, that she knew. The regard which he was
supposed to feel for the humble cabinet-maker's daughter could only be a
passing fancy. The dictator of France must choose a mate worthy of his
power and of his ambition; his friends would see to that. Robespierre's
gratitude! What a vista of triumphs and of glory did that eventuality
open up before her, what dizzy heights of satisfied ambition! And what a
contrast if Chauvelin's scheme failed in the end!
"Wait," he had cried, "until you stand at the bar of the people's
tribunal and plead indifference!"
Theresia shuddered. Despite the close atmosphere of the apartment, she
was shivering with cold. Her loneliness, her isolation, here in this
house, where an appalling and grim tragedy was even now in preparation,
filled her with sickening dread. Overhead she could hear the soldiers
moving about, and in one of the rooms close by her sensitive ear caught
the sound of Mother Théot's shuffling tread.
But the sound that was most insistent, that hammered away at her heart
until she could have screamed with the pain, was the echo of a lazy,
somewhat inane laugh and of a gently mocking voice that said lightly:
"The best of life is folly, dear lady. I would not miss this moment for
a kingdom."
Her hand went up to her throat to smother the sobs that would rise up
against her will. Then she called all her self-control, all her ambition
to her aid. This present mood was sentimental nonsense, an abyss created
by an over-sensitive heart, into which she might be falling headlong.
What was this Englishman to her that thought of his death should prove
such mental agony? As for him, he only laughed at her; despised her
still, probably; hated her for the injury she had done to that woman
upstairs whom he loved.
Impatient to get away from this atmosphere of tragedy and of mysticism
which was preying on her nerves, Theresia called peremptorily to Mother
Théot, and when the old woman came shuffling out of her room, demanded
her cloak and hood.
"Have you seen aught of citizen Moncrif?" she asked, just before going
away.
"I caught sight of him over the way," Catherine Théot replied,
"watching this house, as he always does when you, citoyenne, are in it."
"Ah!" the imperious beauty retorted, with a thought of spite in her
mellow voice. "Would you could give him a potion, Mother, to cure him of
his infatuation for me!"
"Despise no man's love, citoyenne," the witch retorted sententiously.
"Even that poor vagabond's blind passion may yet prove thy salvation."
A moment or two later Theresia was once more on the dark stairs where
she had dreamed of the handsome milor. She sighed as she ran swiftly
down--sighed, and looked half-fearfully about her. She still felt his
presence through the gloom; and in the ghostly light that feebly
illumined the corner whereon he had stood, she still vaguely saw in
spirit his tall straight figure, stooping whilst he kissed her hand. At
one moment she was quite sure that she heard his voice and the echo of
his pleasant laugh.
Down below, Bertrand Moncrif was waiting for her, silent, humble, with
the look of a faithful watch-dog upon his pale, wan face.
"You make yourself ill, my poor Bertrand," Theresia said, not unkindly,
seeing that he stood aside to let her pass, fearful of a rebuff if he
dared speak to her. "I am in no danger, I assure you; and this constant
dogging of my footsteps can do no good to you or to me."
"But it can do no harm," he pleaded earnestly. "Something tells me,
Theresia, that danger does threaten you, unbeknown to you, from a
quarter least expected."
"Bah!" she retorted lightly. "And if it did, you could not avert it."
He made a desperate effort to check the words of passionate
protestations which rose to his lips. He longed to tell her how gladly
he would make of his body a shield to protect her from harm, how happy
he would be if he might die for her. But obviously he dared not say what
lay nearest to his heart. All he could do now was to walk silently by
her side as far as her lodgings in the Rue Villedot, grateful for this
small privilege, uncomplaining and almost happy because she tolerated
his presence, and because while she walked the ends of her long scarf
stirred by the breeze would now and again flutter against his cheek.
Miserable Bertrand! He had laden his soul with an abominable crime for
this woman's sake; and he had not even the satisfaction of feeling that
she gave him an infinitesimal measure of gratitude.