Nobody in the quartier could quite recollect when it was that the new
Public Letter-Writer first set up in business at the angle formed by the
Quai des Augustins and the Rue Dauphine, immediately facing the Pont
Neuf; but there he certainly was on the 28th day of February, 1793, when
Agnes, with eyes swollen with tears, a market basket on her arm, and a
look of dreary despair on her young face, turned that selfsame angle on
her way to the Pont Neuf, and nearly fell over the rickety construction
which sheltered him and his stock-in-trade.
"Oh, mon Dieu! citizen Lepine, I had no idea you were here," she
exclaimed as soon as she had recovered her balance.
"Nor I, citizeness, that I should have the pleasure of seeing you this
morning," he retorted.
"But you were always at the other corner of the Pont Neuf," she argued.
"So I was," he replied, "so I was. But I thought I would like a change.
The Faubourg St. Michel appealed to me; most of my clients came to me
from this side of the river--all those on the other side seem to know
how to read and write."
"I was just going over to see you," she remarked.
"You, citizeness," he exclaimed in unfeigned surprise, "what should
procure a poor public writer the honour of--"
"Hush, in God's name!" broke in the young girl quickly as she cast a
rapid, furtive glance up and down the quai and the narrow streets which
converged at this angle.
She was dressed in the humblest and poorest of clothes, her skimpy shawl
round her shoulders could scarce protect her against the cold of this
cruel winter's morning; her hair was entirely hidden beneath a frilled
and starched cap, and her feet were encased in coarse worsted stockings
and sabots, but her hands were delicate and fine, and her face had that
nobility of feature and look of patient resignation in the midst of
overwhelming sorrow which proclaimed a lofty refinement both of soul and
of mind.
The old Letter-Writer was surveying the pathetic young figure before him
through his huge horn-rimmed spectacles, and she smiled on him through
her fast-gathering tears. He used to have his pitch at the angle of the
Pont Neuf, and whenever Agnes had walked past it, she had nodded to him
and bidden him "Good morrow!" He had at times done little commissions
for her and gone on errands when she needed a messenger; to-day, in the
midst of her despair, she had suddenly thought of him and that rumour
credited him with certain knowledge which she would give her all to
possess.
She had sallied forth this morning with the express purpose of speaking
with him; but now suddenly she felt afraid, and stood looking at him for
a moment or two, hesitating, wondering if she dared tell him--one never
knew these days into what terrible pitfall an ill-considered word might
lead one.
A scarecrow he was, that old Public Letter-Writer, more like a great,
gaunt bird than a human being, with those spectacles of his, and his
long, very sparse and very lanky fringe of a beard which fell from his
cheeks and chin and down his chest for all the world like a crumpled
grey bib. He was wrapped from head to foot in a caped coat which had
once been green in colour, but was now of many hues not usually seen in
rainbows. He wore his coat all buttoned down the front, like a
dressing-gown, and below the hem there peeped out a pair of very large
feet encased in boots which had never been a pair. He sat upon a
rickety, straw-bottomed chair under an improvised awning which was made
up of four poles and a bit of sacking. He had a table in front of him--a
table partially and very insecurely propped up by a bundle of old papers
and books, since no two of its four legs were completely whole--and on
the table there was a neckless bottle half-filled with ink, a few sheets
of paper and a couple of quill pens.
The young girl's hesitation had indeed not lasted more than a few
seconds.
Furtively, like a young creature terrified of lurking enemies, she once
more glanced to right and left of her and down the two streets and the
river bank, for Paris was full of spies these days--human bloodhounds
ready for a few sous to sell their fellow-creatures' lives. It was
middle morning now, and a few passers-by were hurrying along wrapped to
the nose in mufflers, for the weather was bitterly cold.
Agnes waited until there was no one in sight, then she leaned forward
over the table and whispered under her breath:
"They say, citizen, that you alone in Paris know the whereabouts of the
English milor'--of him who is called the Scarlet Pimpernel...."
"Hush-sh-sh!" said the old man quickly, for just at that moment two men
had gone by, in ragged coats and torn breeches, who had leered at Agnes
and her neat cap and skirt as they passed. Now they had turned the angle
of the street and the old man, too, sank his voice to a whisper.
"I know nothing of any Englishman," he muttered.
"Yes, you do," she rejoined insistently. "When poor Antoine Carre was
somewhere in hiding and threatened with arrest, and his mother dared not
write to him lest her letter be intercepted, she spoke to you about the
English milor', and the English milor' found Antoine Carre and took him
and his mother safely out of France. Mme. Carre is my godmother.... I
saw her the very night when she went to meet the English milor' at his
commands. I know all that happened then.... I know that you were the
intermediary."
"And if I was," he muttered sullenly as he fiddled with his pen and
paper, "maybe I've had cause to regret it. For a week after that Carre
episode I dared not show my face in the streets of Paris; for nigh on a
fortnight I dared not ply my trade ... I have only just ventured again
to set up in business. I am not going to risk my old neck again in a
hurry...."
"It is a matter of life and death," urged Agnes, as once more the tears
rushed to her pleading eyes and the look of misery settled again upon
her face.
"Your life, citizeness?" queried the old man, "or that of citizen-deputy
Fabrice?"
"Hush!" she broke in again, as a look of real terror now overspread her
face. Then she added under her breath: "You know?"
"I know that Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucines is fiancee to the
citizen-deputy Arnould Fabrice," rejoined the old man quietly, "and that
it is Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucines who is speaking with me now."
"You have known that all along?"
"Ever since mademoiselle first tripped past me at the angle of the Pont
Neuf dressed in winsey kirtle and wearing sabots on her feet...."
"But how?" she murmured, puzzled, not a little frightened, for his
knowledge might prove dangerous to her. She was of gentle birth, and as
such an object of suspicion to the Government of the Republic and of the
Terror; her mother was a hopeless cripple, unable to move: this together
with her love for Arnould Fabrice had kept Agnes de Lucines in France
these days, even though she was in hourly peril of arrest.
"Tell me what has happened," the old man said, unheeding her last
anxious query. "Perhaps I can help ..."
"Oh! you cannot--the English milor' can and will if only we could know
where he is. I thought of him the moment I received that awful man's
letter--and then I thought of you...."
"Tell me about the letter--quickly," he interrupted her with some
impatience. "I'll be writing something--but talk away, I shall hear
every word. But for God's sake be as brief as you can."
He drew some paper nearer to him and dipped his pen in the ink. He
appeared to be writing under her dictation. Thin, flaky snow had begun
to fall and settled in a smooth white carpet upon the frozen ground, and
the footsteps of the passers-by sounded muffled as they hurried along.
Only the lapping of the water of the sluggish river close by broke the
absolute stillness of the air.
Agnes de Lucines' pale face looked ethereal in this framework of white
which covered her shoulders and the shawl crossed over her bosom: only
her eyes, dark, appealing, filled with a glow of immeasurable despair,
appeared tensely human and alive.
"I had a letter this morning," she whispered, speaking very rapidly,
"from citizen Heriot--that awful man--you know him?"
"Yes, yes!"
"He used to be valet in the service of deputy Fabrice. Now he, too, is a
member of the National Assembly ... he is arrogant and cruel and vile.
He hates Arnould Fabrice and he professes himself passionately in love
with me."
"Yes, yes!" murmured the old man, "but the letter?"
"It came this morning. In it he says that he has in his possession a
number of old letters, documents and manuscripts which are quite enough
to send deputy Fabrice to the guillotine. He threatens to place all
those papers before the Committee of Public Safety unless ... unless
I...."
She paused, and a deep blush, partly of shame, partly of wrath, suffused
her pale cheeks.
"Unless you accept his grimy hand in marriage," concluded the man dryly.
Her eyes gave him answer. With pathetic insistence she tried now to
glean a ray of hope from the old scarecrow's inscrutable face. But he
was bending over his writing: his fingers were blue with cold, his great
shoulders were stooping to his task.
"Citizen," she pleaded.
"Hush!" he muttered, "no more now. The very snowflakes are made up of
whispers that may reach those bloodhounds yet. The English milor' shall
know of this. He will send you a message if he thinks fit."
"Citizen--"
"Not another word, in God's name! Pay me five sous for this letter and
pray Heaven that you have not been watched."
She shivered and drew her shawl closer round her shoulders, then she
counted out five sous with elaborate care and laid them out upon the
table. The old man took up the coins. He blew into his fingers, which
looked paralysed with the cold. The snow lay over everything now; the
rough awning had not protected him or his wares.
Agnes turned to go. The last she saw of him, as she went up the Rue
Dauphine, was one broad shoulder still bending over the table, and clad
in the shabby, caped coat all covered with snow like an old Santa Claus.