IN THE MEANWHILE
§1
Chauvelin, who, despite his many failures, was still one of the most
conspicuous--since he was one of the most unscrupulous--members of the
Committee of Public Safety, had not attended its sittings for some days.
He had been too deeply absorbed in his own schemes to trouble about
those of his colleagues. In truth, the coup which he was preparing was
so stupendous, and if it succeeded his triumph would be so magnificent,
that he could well afford to hold himself aloof. Those who were still
inclined to scorn and to scoff at him to-day would be his most cringing
sycophants on the morrow.
He know well enough--none better--that during this time the political
atmosphere in the Committees and the Clubs was nothing short of
electrical. He felt, as every one did, that something catastrophic was
in the air, that death, more self-evident than ever before, lurked at
every man's elbow, and stalked round the corner of every street.
Robespierre, the tyrant, the autocrat whose mere word swayed the
multitude, remained silent and impenetrable, absent from every
gathering. He only made brief appearances at the Convention, and there
sat moody and self-absorbed. Every one knew that this man, dictator in
all but name, was meditating a Titanic attack upon his enemies. His
veiled threats, uttered during his rare appearances at the speaker's
tribune, embraced even the most popular, the most prominent, amongst the
Representatives of the people. Every one, in fact, who was likely to
stand in his way when he was ready to snatch the supreme power. His
intimates--Couthon, St. Just, and the others--openly accused of planning
a dictatorship for their chief, hardly took the trouble to deny the
impeachment, even whilst Tallien and his friends, feeling that the
tyrant had already decreed their doom, went about like ghostly shadows,
not daring to raise their voices in the Convention lest the first word
they uttered brought down the sword of his lustful wrath upon their
heads.
The Committee of Public Safely--now renamed the Revolutionary
Committee--strove on the other hand by a recrudescence of cruelty to
ingratiate itself with the potential dictator and to pose before the
people as alone pure and incorruptible, blind in justice, inexorable
where the safety of the Republic was concerned. Thus an abominable
emulation of vengeance and of persecution went on between the Committee
and Robespierre's party, wherein neither side could afford to give in,
for fear of being accused of apathy and of moderation.
Chauvelin, for the most part, had kept out of the turmoil. He felt that
in his hands lay the destiny of either party. His one thought was of the
Scarlet Pimpernel and of his imminent capture, knowing that, with the
most inveterate opponent of revolutionary excesses in his hands, he
would within an hour be in a position to link his triumph with one or
the other of the parties--either with Robespierre and his herd of
butchers, or with Tallien and the Moderates.
He was the mysterious and invisible deus ex machina, who anon, when it
suited his purpose, would reveal himself in his full glory as the man
who had tracked down and brought to the guillotine the most dangerous
enemy of the revolutionary government. And, so easily is a multitude
swayed, that one fact would bring him popularity, transcending that
of every other man in France. He, Chauvelin, the despised, the derided,
whose name had become synonymous with Failure, would then with a word
sweep those aside who had mocked him, hurl his enemies from their
pedestals, and name at will the rulers of France. All within four days!
And of these, two had gone by.
§2
These days in mid-July had been more than usually sultry. It seemed
almost as if Nature had linked herself with the passions of men, and
hand in hand with Vengeance, Lust and Cruelty, had rendered the air hot
and heavy with the presage of on-coming storm.
For Marguerite Blakeney these days had gone by like a nightmare. Cut off
from all knowledge of the outside world, without news from her husband
for the past forty-eight hours, she was enduring mental agony such as
would have broken a weaker or less trusting spirit.
Two days ago she had received a message, a few lines hastily scribbled
by an unknown hand, and brought to her by the old woman who waited upon
her.
"I have seen him," the message said. "He is well and full of hope. I
pray God for your deliverance and his, but help can only come by a
miracle."
The message was written in a feminine hand, with no clue as to the
writer.
Since then, nothing.
Marguerite had not seen Chauvelin again, for which indeed she thanked
Heaven on her knees. But every day at a given hour she was conscious of
his presence outside her door. She heard his voice in the vestibule:
there would be a word or two of command, the grounding of arms, then
some whispered talking; and presently Chauvelin's stealthy footstep
would slink up to her door. And Marguerite would remain still as a mouse
that scents the presence of a cat, holding her breath, life almost at a
standstill in this agony of expectation.
The remainder of the day time hung with a leaden weight on her hands.
She was given no books to read, not a needle wherewith to busy herself.
She had no one to speak to save old Mother Théot, who waited on her and
brought her meals, nearly always in silence, and with a dour mien
which checked any attempt at conversation.
For company, the unfortunate woman had nothing but her own thoughts, her
fears which grew in intensity, and her hopes which were rapidly
dwindling, as hour followed hour and day succeeded day in dreary
monotony. No sound around her save the incessant tramp, tramp of
sentries at her door, and every two hours the changing of the guard in
the vestibule outside; then the whispered colloquies, the soldiers
playing at cards or throwing dice, the bibulous songs, the ribald
laughter, the obscene words flung aloud like bits of filthy rag; the
life, in fact, that revolved around her jailers and seemed at a
standstill within her prison walls.
In the late afternoons the air would become insufferably hot, and
Marguerite would throw open the window and sit beside it, her gaze fixed
upon the horizon far away, her hands lying limp and moist upon her lap.
Then she would fall to dreaming. Her thoughts, swifter than flight of
swallows, would cross the sea and go roaming across country to her
stately home in Richmond, where at this hour the moist, cool air was
fragrant with the scent of late roses and of lime blossom, and the
murmur of the river lapping the mossy bank whispered of love and of
peace. In her dream she would see the tall figure of her beloved coming
toward her. The sunset was playing upon his smooth hair and upon his
strong, slender hands, always outstretched toward the innocent and the
weak. She would hear his dear voice calling her name, feel his arms
around her, and her senses swooning in the ecstasy of that perfect
moment which comes just before a kiss.
She would dream . . . only to wake up the next moment to hear the church
clock of St. Antoine striking seven, and a minute or two later that
ominous shuffling footstep outside her door, those whisperings, the
grounding of arms, a burst of cruel laughter, which brought her from the
dizzy heights of illusive happiness back to the hideous reality of her
own horrible position, and of the deadly danger which lay in wait for
her beloved.