OUR LADY OF PITY
§1
It was like an outraged divinity in the face of sacrilege that Theresia
Cabarrus appeared in the antechamber of her apartment, ten minutes
later.
Her rooms were full of men; sentries were at the door; the furniture was
overturned; the upholstery ripped up, cupboard doors swung open; even
her bed and bedding lay in a tangled heap upon the floor. The lights in
the rooms were dim, one single lamp shedding its feeble rays from the
antechamber into the living-room, whilst another flickered on a
wall-bracket in the passage. In the bedroom the maid Pepita, guarded by
a soldier, was loudly lamenting and cursing in voluble Spanish.
Citizen Chauvelin was standing in the centre of the living-room, intent
on examining some papers. In a corner of the antechamber cowered the
ungainly figure of Rateau the coalheaver.
Theresia took in the whole tragic picture at a glance; then with a
proud, defiant toss of the head she swept past the soldiers in the
antechamber and confronted Chauvelin, before he had time to notice her
approach.
"Something has turned your brain, citizen Chauvelin," she said coolly.
"What is it?"
He looked up, encountered her furious glance, and at once made her a
profound, ironical bow.
"How wise was our young friend there to tell you of our visit,
citoyenne!" he said suavely.
And he looked with mild approval in the direction where Bertrand Moncrif
stood between two soldiers, who had quickly barred his progress and were
holding him tightly by the wrists.
"I came," Theresia retorted harshly, "as the forerunner of those who
will know how to punish this outrage, citizen Chauvelin."
Once more he bowed, smiling blandly.
"I shall be as ready to receive them," he said quietly, "as I am
gratified to see the citoyenne Cabarrus. When they come, shall I direct
them to call and see their beautiful Egeria at the Conciergerie, whither
we shall have the honour to convey her immediately?"
Theresia threw back her head and laughed; but her voice sounded hard and
forced.
"At the Conciergerie?" she exclaimed. "I?"
"Even you, citoyenne," Chauvelin replied.
"On what charge, I pray you?" she demanded, with biting sarcasm.
"Of trafficking with the enemies of the Republic."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You are mad, citizen Chauvelin!" she riposted with perfect sang-froid.
"I pray you, order your men to re-establish order in my apartment; and
remember that I will hold you responsible for any damage that has been
done."
"Shall I also," Chauvelin rejoined with equally perfect equanimity,
"replace these letters and other interesting objects, there where we
found them?"
"Letters?" she retorted, frowning. "What letters?"
"These, citoyenne," he replied, and held up to her gaze the papers which
he had in his hand.
"What are they? I have never seen them before."
"Nevertheless, we found them in that bureau." And Chauvelin pointed to a
small piece of furniture which stood against the wall, and the drawers
of which had obviously been forcibly torn open. Then as Theresia
remained silent, apparently ununderstanding, he went on suavely: "They
are letters written at different times to Mme. de Fontenay, née
Cabarrus--_Our Lady of Pity_, as she was called by grateful Bordeaux."
"By whom?" she asked.
"By the interesting hero of romance who is known to the world as the
Scarlet Pimpernel."
"It is false!" she retorted firmly. "I have never received a letter from
him in my life!"
"His handwriting is all too familiar to me, citoyenne; and the letters
are addressed to you."
"It is false!" she reiterated with unabated firmness. "This is some
devilish trick you have devised in order to ruin me. But take care,
citizen Chauvelin, take care! If this is a trial of strength 'twixt you
and me, the next few hours will show who will gain the day."
"If it were a trial of strength 'twixt you and me, citoyenne," he
rejoined blandly, "I would already be a vanquished man. But it is France
this time who has challenged a traitor. That traitor is Theresia
Fontenay, née Cabarrus. The trial of strength is between her and
France."
"You are mad, citizen Chauvelin! If there were letters writ by the
Scarlet Pimpernel found in my rooms, 'tis you who put them there!"
"That statement you will be at liberty to substantiate to-morrow,
citoyenne," he retorted coldly, "at the bar of the revolutionary
tribunal. There, no doubt, you can explain away how citizen Rateau knew
of the existence of those letters, and led me straight to their
discovery. I have an officer of the National Guard, the commissary of
the section, and half a dozen men to prove the truth of what I say, and
to add that in a wall-cupboard in your antechamber we also found this
interesting collection, the use of which you, citoyenne, will no doubt
be able to explain."
He stepped aside and pointed to a curious heap which littered the
floor--rags for the most part: a tattered shirt, frayed breeches, a
grimy cap, a wig made up of lank, colourless hair, the counterpart of
that which adorned the head of the coalheaver Rateau.
Theresia looked on those rags for a moment in a kind of horrified
puzzlement. Her cheeks and lips became the colour of ashes. She put her
hand up to her forehead, as if to chase a hideous, ghoulish vision away,
and smothered a cry of horror. Puzzlement had given place to a kind of
superstitious dread. The room, the rags, the faces of the soldiers began
to whirl around her--impish shapes to dance a wild saraband before her
eyes. And in the midst of this witch's cauldron the figure of Chauvelin,
like a weird hobgoblin, was executing elf-like contortions and
brandishing a packet of letters writ upon scarlet paper.
She tried to laugh, to speak defiant words; but her throat felt as if it
were held in a vice, and losing momentary consciousness she tottered,
and only saved herself from measuring her length upon the floor by
clinging with both hands to a table immediately behind her.
As to what happened after that, she only had a blurred impression.
Chauvelin gave a curt word of command, and a couple of soldiers came and
stood to right and left of her. Then a piercing cry rang through the
narrow rooms, and she saw Bertrand Moncrif for one moment between
herself and the soldiers, fighting desperately, shielding her with his
body, tearing and raging like a wild animal defending its young. The
whole room appeared full of a deafening noise: cries and more
cries--words of command--calls of rage and of entreaty. Then suddenly
the word "Fire!" and the detonation of a pistol at close range, and the
body of Bertrand Moncrif sliding down limp and impotent to the floor.
After that, everything became dark around her. Theresia felt as if she
were looking down an immeasurable abyss of inky blackness, and that she
was falling, falling. . . .
A thin, dry laugh brought her back to her senses, her pride to the fore,
her vanity up in arms. She drew her statuesque figure up to its full
height and once more confronted Chauvelin like an august and outraged
divinity.
"And at whose word," she demanded, "is this monstrous charge to be
brought against me?"
"At the word of a free citizen of the State," Chauvelin replied coldly.
"Bring him before me."
Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders and smiled indulgently, like one who is
ready to humour a wayward child.
"Citizen Rateau!" he called.
From the anteroom there came the sound of much shuffling, spluttering,
and wheezing; then the dull clatter of wooden shoes upon the carpeted
floor; and presently the ungainly, grime-covered figure of the
coalheaver appeared in the doorway.
Theresia looked on him for a few seconds in silence, then she gave a
ringing laugh and with exquisite bare arm outstretched she pointed to
the scrubby apparition.
"That man's word against mine!" she called, with well-assumed mockery.
"Rateau the caitiff against Theresia Cabarrus, the intimate friend of
citizen Robespierre! What a subject for a lampoon!"
Then her laughter broke. She turned once more on Chauvelin like an angry
goddess.
"That vermin!" she exclaimed, her voice hoarse with indignation. "That
sorry knave with a felon's brand! In truth, citizen Chauvelin, your
spite must be hard put to it to bring up such a witness against me!"
Then suddenly her glance fell upon the lifeless body of Bertrand
Moncrif, and on the horrible crimson stain which discoloured his coat.
She gave a shudder of horror, and for a moment her eyes closed and her
head fell back, as if she were about to swoon. But she quickly recovered
herself. Her will-power at this moment was unconquerable. She looked
with unutterable contempt on Chauvelin; then she raised her cloak, which
had slipped down from her shoulders, and wrapped it with a queen-like
gesture around her, and without another word led the way out of the
apartment.
Chauvelin remained standing in the middle of the room, his face quite
expressionless, his claw-like hands still fingering the fateful letters.
Two soldiers remained with him beside the body of Bertrand Moncrif. The
maid Pepita, still shrieking and gesticulating violently, had to be
dragged away in the wake of her mistress.
In the doorway between the living-room and the antechamber, Rateau,
humble, snivelling, more than a little frightened, stood aside in order
to allow the guard and their imperious prisoner to pass. Theresia did
not condescend to look at him again; and he, shuffling and stumbling in
his clumsy wooden shoes, followed the soldiers down the stairs.
§2
It was still raining hard. The captain who was in charge of Theresia
told her that he had a chaise ready for her. It was waiting out in the
street. Theresia ordered him to send for it; she would not, she said,
offer herself as a spectacle to the riff-raff who happened to be passing
by. The captain had probably received orders to humour the prisoner as
far as was compatible with safety. Certain it is that he sent one of his
men to fetch the coach and to order the concierge to throw open the
porte-cochère.
Theresia remained standing in the narrow vestibule at the foot of the
stairs. Two soldiers stood on guard over the maid, whilst another stood
beside Theresia. The captain, muttering with impatience, paced up and
down the stone-paved floor. Rateau had paused on the stairs, a step or
two just above where Theresia was standing. On the wall opposite,
supported by an iron bracket, a smoky oil-lamp shed a feeble, yellowish
flicker around.
A few minutes went by; then a loud clatter woke the echoes of the dreary
old house, and a coach drawn by two ancient, half-starved nags, lumbered
into the courtyard and came to a halt in front of the open doorway. The
captain gave a sigh of relief, and called out: "Now then, citoyenne!"
whilst the soldier who had gone to fetch the coach jumped down from the
box-seat and, with his comrades, stood at attention. The maid was
summarily bundled into the coach, and Theresia was ready to follow.
Just then the draught through the open door blew her velvet cloak
against the filthy rags of the miserable ruffian behind her. An
unexplainable impulse caused her to look up, and she encountered his
eyes fixed upon her. A dull cry rose to her throat, and instinctively
she put up her hand to her mouth, striving to smother the sound. Horror
dilated her eyes, and through her lips one word escaped like a hoarse
murmur:
"You!"
He put a grimy finger to his lips. But already she had recovered
herself. Here then was the explanation of the mystery which surrounded
this monstrous denunciation. The English milor had planned it as a
revenge for the injury done to his wife.
"Captain!" she cried out shrilly. "Beware! The English spy is at your
heels!"
But apparently the captain's complaisance did not go to the length of
listening to the ravings of his fair prisoner. He was impatient to get
this unpleasant business over.
"Now then, citoyenne!" was his gruff retort. "En voiture!"
"You fool!" she cried, bracing herself against the grip of the soldiers
who were on the point of seizing her. "'Tis the Scarlet Pimpernel! If
you let him escape----"
"The Scarlet Pimpernel?" the Captain retorted with a laugh. "Where?"
"The coalheaver! Rateau! 'Tis he, I tell you!" And Theresia's cries
became more frantic as she felt herself unceremoniously lifted off the
ground. "You fool! You fool! You are letting him escape!"
"Rateau, the coalheaver!" the captain exclaimed. "We have heard that
pretty story before. Here, citizen Rateau!" he went on, and shouted at
the top of his voice. "Go and report yourself to citizen Chauvelin. Tell
him you are the Scarlet Pimpernel! As for you, citoyenne, enough of this
shouting--what? My orders are to take you to the Conciergerie, and not
to run after spies--English, German, or Dutch. Now then, citizen
soldiers! . . ."
Theresia, throwing her dignity to the winds, did indeed raise a shout
that brought the other lodgers of the house to their door. But her
screams had become inarticulate, as the soldiers, in obedience to the
captain's impatient orders, had wrapped her cloak about her head. Thus
the inhabitants of the dreary old house in the Rue Villedot could only
ascertain that the citoyenne Cabarrus who lodged on the third floor had
been taken to prison, screaming and fighting, in a manner that no
self-respecting aristo had ever done.
Theresia Cabarrus was ignominiously lifted into the coach and deposited
by the side of equally noisy Pepita. Through the folds of the cloak her
reiterated cry could still faintly be heard:
"You fool! You traitor! You cursed, miserable fool!"
One of the lodgers on the second floor--a young woman who was on good
terms with every male creature that wore uniform--leaned over the
balustrade of the balcony and shouted gaily down:
"Hey, citizen captain! Why is the aristo screaming so?"
One of the soldiers looked up, and shouted back:
"She has hold of the story that citizen Rateau is an English milor in
disguise, and she wants to run after him!"
Loud laughter greeted this tale, and a lusty cheer was set up as the
coach swung clumsily out of the courtyard.
A moment or two later, Chauvelin, followed by the two soldiers, came
quickly down the stairs. The noise from below had at last reached his
ears. At first he too thought that it was only the proud Spaniard who
was throwing her dignity to the winds. Then a word or two sounded
clearly above the din:
"The Scarlet Pimpernel! The English spy!"
The words acted like a sorcerer's charm--a call from the vasty deep. In
an instant the rest of the world ceased to have any importance in his
sight. One thing and one alone mattered; his enemy.
Calling to the soldiers to follow him, he was out of the apartment and
down in the vestibule below in a trice. The coach at that moment was
turning out of the porte-cochère. The courtyard, wrapped in gloom, was
alive with chattering and laughter which proceeded from the windows and
balconies around. It was raining fast, and from the balconies the water
was pouring down in torrents.
Chauvelin stood in the doorway and sent one of the soldiers to ascertain
what the disturbance had all been about. The man returned with an
account of how the aristo had screamed and raved like a mad-woman, and
tried to escape by sending the citizen captain on a fool's errand,
vowing that poor old Rateau was an English spy in disguise.
Chauvelin gave a sigh of relief. He certainly need not rack his nerves
or break his head over that! He had good cause to know that Rateau, with
the branded arm, could not possibly be the Scarlet Pimpernel!