As soon as the sound of the children's footsteps had died away down the
corridor, Lebel turned with a grunt to his still silent companion.
"And now, citizen Chauvelin," he said roughly, "perhaps you will be good
enough to explain what is the meaning of all this tomfoolery."
"Tomfoolery, citizen?" queried the other blandly. "What tomfoolery,
pray?"
"Why, about those papers!" growled Lebel savagely. "Curse you for an
interfering busybody! It was I who got information that those
pestilential aristos, the Montorgueils, far from having fled the country
are in hiding somewhere in my district. I could have made the girl give
up their hiding-place pretty soon, without any help from you. What right
had you to interfere, I should like to know?"
"You know quite well what right I had, citizen Lebel," replied Chauvelin
with perfect composure. "The right conferred upon me by the Committee of
Public Safety, of whom I am still an unworthy member. They sent me down
here to lend you a hand in an investigation which is of grave importance
to them."
"I know that!" retorted Lebel sulkily. "But why have invented the story
of the papers?"
"It is no invention, citizen," rejoined Chauvelin with slow emphasis.
"The papers do exist. They are actually in the possession of the
Montorgueils, father and son. To capture the two aristos would be not
only a blunder, but criminal folly, unless we can lay hands on the
papers at the same time."
"But what in Satan's name are those papers?" ejaculated Lebel with a
fierce oath.
"Think, citizen Lebel! Think!" was Chauvelin's cool rejoinder. "Methinks
you might arrive at a pretty shrewd guess." Then, as the other's bluster
and bounce suddenly collapsed upon his colleague's calm, accusing gaze,
the latter continued with impressive deliberation:
"The papers which the two aristos have in their possession, citizen, are
receipts for money, for bribes paid to various members of the Committee
of Public Safety by Royalist agents for the overthrow of our glorious
Republic. You know all about them, do you not?"
While Chauvelin spoke, a look of furtive terror had crept into Lebel's
eyes; his cheeks became the colour of lead. But even so, he tried to
keep up an air of incredulity and of amazement.
"I?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean, citizen Chauvelin? What should I
know about it?"
"Some of those receipts are signed with your name, citizen Lebel,"
retorted Chauvelin forcefully. "Bah!" he added, and a tone of savage
contempt crept into his even, calm voice now. "Heriot, Foucquier, Ducros
and the whole gang of you are in it up to the neck: trafficking with our
enemies, trading with England, taking bribes from every quarter for
working against the safety of the Republic. Ah! if I had my way, I would
let the hatred of those aristos take its course. I would let the
Montorgueils and the whole pack of Royalist agents publish those
infamous proofs of your treachery and of your baseness to the entire
world, and send the whole lot of you to the guillotine!"
He had spoken with so much concentrated fury, and the hatred and
contempt expressed in his pale eyes were so fierce that an involuntary
ice-cold shiver ran down the length of Lebel's spine. But, even so, he
would not give in; he tried to sneer and to keep up something of his
former surly defiance.
"Bah!" he exclaimed, and with a lowering glance gave hatred for hatred,
and contempt for contempt. "What can you do? An I am not mistaken, there
is no more discredited man in France to-day than the unsuccessful
tracker of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
The taunt went home. It was Chauvelin's turn now to lose countenance, to
pale to the lips. The glow of virtuous indignation died out of his eyes,
his look became furtive and shamed.
"You are right, citizen Lebel," he said calmly after a while.
"Recriminations between us are out of place. I am a discredited man, as
you say. Perhaps it would have been better if the Committee had sent me
long ago to expiate my failures on the guillotine. I should at least not
have suffered, as I am suffering now, daily, hourly humiliation at
thought of the triumph of an enemy, whom I hate with a passion which
consumes my very soul. But do not let us speak of me," he went on
quietly. "There are graver affairs at stake just now than mine own."
Lebel said nothing more for the moment. Perhaps he was satisfied at the
success of his taunt, even though the terror within his craven soul
still caused the cold shiver to course up and down his spine. Chauvelin
had once more turned to the window; his gaze was fixed upon the distance
far away. The window gave on the North. That way, in a straight line,
lay Calais, Boulogne, England--where he had been made to suffer such
bitter humiliation at the hands of his elusive enemy. And immediately
before him was Paris, where the very walls seemed to echo that mocking
laugh of the daring Englishman which would haunt him even to his grave.
Lebel, unnerved by his colleague's silence, broke in gruffly at last:
"Well then, citizen," he said, with a feeble attempt at another sneer,
"if you are not thinking of sending us all to the guillotine just yet,
perhaps you will be good enough to explain just how the matter stands?"
"Fairly simply, alas!" replied Chauvelin dryly. "The two Montorgueils,
father and son, under assumed names, were the Royalist agents who
succeeded in suborning men such as you, citizen--the whole gang of you.
We have tracked them down, to this district, have confiscated their
lands and ransacked the old chateau for valuables and so on. Two days
later, the first of a series of pestilential anonymous letters reached
the Committee of Public Safety, threatening the publication of a whole
series of compromising documents if the Marquis and the Vicomte de
Montorgueil were in any way molested, and if all the Montorgueil
property is not immediately restored."
"I suppose it is quite certain that those receipts and documents do
exist?" suggested Lebel.
"Perfectly certain. One of the receipts, signed by Heriot, was sent as a
specimen."
"My God!" ejaculated Lebel, and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.
"Yes, you'll all want help from somewhere," retorted Chauvelin coolly.
"From above or from below, what? if the people get to know what
miscreants you are. I do believe," he added, with a vicious snap of his
thin lips, "that they would cheat the guillotine of you and, in the end,
drag you out of the tumbrils and tear you to pieces limb from limb!"
Once more that look of furtive terror crept into the commissary's
bloodshot eyes.
"Thank the Lord," he muttered, "that we were able to get hold of the
wench Clamette!"
"At my suggestion," retorted Chauvelin curtly. "I always believe in
threatening the weak if you want to coerce the strong. The Montorgueils
cannot resist the wench's appeal. Even if they do at first, we can apply
the screw by clapping one of the young ones in gaol. Within a week we
shall have those papers, citizen Lebel; and if, in the meanwhile, no one
commits a further blunder, we can close the trap on the Montorgueils
without further trouble."
Lebel said nothing more, and after a while Chauvelin went back to the
desk, picked up the letter which poor Lucile had written and watered
with her tears, folded it deliberately and slipped it into the inner
pocket of his coat.
"What are you going to do?" queried Lebel anxiously.
"Drop this letter into the hollow tree by the side of the stable gate at
Montorgueil," replied Chauvelin simply.
"What?" exclaimed the other. "Yourself?"
"Why, of course! Think you I would entrust such an errand to another
living soul?"