VI

Then suddenly a shiver of excitement went right through him. He was

fully awake now, with glowing eyes wide open and the icy calm of perfect

confidence ruling every nerve. The sound of stealthy footsteps had

reached his ear.

He could see nothing, either outside or in; but his fingers felt for the

pistol which he carried in his belt. The aristo was evidently alone;

only one solitary footstep was approaching the chateau.

Chauvelin had left the door ajar which gave on the boudoir. The

staircase was on the other side of that fateful room, and the door

leading to that was closed. A few minutes of tense expectancy went by.

Then through the silence there came the sound of furtive foot-steps on

the stairs, the creaking of a loose board and finally the stealthy

opening of the door.

In all his adventurous career Chauvelin had never felt so calm. His

heart beat quite evenly, his senses were undisturbed by the slightest

tingling of his nerves. The stealthy sounds in the next room brought the

movements of the aristo perfectly clear before his mental vision. The

latter was carrying a small dark lanthorn. As soon as he entered he

flashed its light about the room. Then he deposited the lanthorn on the

floor, close beside the hearth, and started to feel up the chimney for

the hidden receptacle.

Chauvelin watched him now like a cat watches a mouse, savouring these

few moments of anticipated triumph. He pushed open the door noiselessly

which gave on the boudoir. By the feeble light of the lanthorn on the

ground he could only see the vague outline of the aristo's back, bending

forward to his task; but a thrill went through him as he saw a bundle of

papers lying on the ground close by.

Everything was ready; the trap was set. Here was a complete victory at

last. It was obviously the young Vicomte de Montorgueil who had come to

do the deed. His head was up the chimney even now. The old Marquis's

back would have looked narrower and more fragile. Chauvelin held his

breath; then he gave a sharp little cough, and took the pistol from his

belt.

The sound caused the aristo to turn, and the next moment a loud and

merry laugh roused the dormant echoes of the old chateau, whilst a

pleasant, drawly voice said in English:

"I am demmed if this is not my dear old friend M. Chambertin! Zounds,

sir! who'd have thought of meeting you here?"

Had a cannon suddenly exploded at Chauvelin's feet he would, I think,

have felt less unnerved. For the space of two heart-beats he stood

there, rooted to the spot, his eyes glued on his arch-enemy, that

execrated Scarlet Pimpernel, whose mocking glance, even through the

intervening gloom, seemed to have deprived him of consciousness. But

that phase of helplessness only lasted for a moment; the next, all the

marvellous possibilities of this encounter flashed through the

Terrorist's keen mind.

Everything was ready; the trap was set! The unfortunate Clamettes were

still the bait which now would bring a far more noble quarry into the

mesh than even he--Chauvelin--had dared to hope.

He raised his pistol, ready to fire. But already Sir Percy Blakeney was

on him, and with a swift movement, which the other was too weak to

resist, he wrenched the weapon from his enemy's grasp.

"Why, how hasty you are, my dear M. Chambertin," he said lightly.

"Surely you are not in such a hurry to put a demmed bullet into me!"

The position now was one which would have made even a braver man than

Chauvelin quake. He stood alone and unarmed in face of an enemy from

whom he could expect no mercy. But, even so, his first thought was not

of escape. He had not only apprised his own danger, but also the immense

power which he held whilst the Clamettes remained as hostages in the

hands of his colleague Lebel.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Sir Percy," he said, speaking every whit

as coolly as his foe. "But only momentarily. You can kill me, of course;

but if I do not return from this expedition not only safe and sound, but

with a certain packet of papers in my hands, my colleague Lebel has

instructions to proceed at once against the girl Clamette and the whole

family."

"I know that well enough," rejoined Sir Percy with a quaint laugh. "I

know what venomous reptiles you and those of your kidney are. You

certainly do owe your life at the present moment to the unfortunate girl

whom you are persecuting with such infamous callousness."

Chauvelin drew a sigh of relief. The situation was shaping itself more

to his satisfaction already. Through the gloom he could vaguely discern

the Englishman's massive form standing a few paces away, one hand buried

in his breeches pockets, the other still holding the pistol. On the

ground close by the hearth was the small lanthorn, and in its dim light

the packet of papers gleamed white and tempting in the darkness.

Chauvelin's keen eyes had fastened on it, saw the form of receipt for

money with Heriot's signature, which he recognised, on the top.

He himself had never felt so calm. The only thing he could regret was

that he was alone. Half a dozen men now, and this impudent foe could

indeed be brought to his knees. And this time there would be no risks

taken, no chances for escape. Somehow it seemed to Chauvelin as if

something of the Scarlet Pimpernel's audacity and foresight had gone

from him. As he stood there, looking broad and physically powerful,

there was something wavering and undecided in his attitude, as if the

edge had been taken off his former recklessness and enthusiasm. He had

brought the compromising papers here, had no doubt helped the

Montorgueils to escape; but while Lucile Clamette and her family were

under the eye of Lebel no amount of impudence could force a successful

bargaining.

It was Chauvelin now who appeared the more keen and the more alert; the

Englishman seemed undecided what to do next, remained silent, toying

with the pistol. He even smothered a yawn. Chauvelin saw his

opportunity. With the quick movement of a cat pouncing upon a mouse he

stooped and seized that packet of papers, would then and there have made

a dash for the door with them, only that, as he seized the packet, the

string which held it together gave way and the papers were scattered all

over the floor.

Receipts for money? Compromising letters? No! Blank sheets of paper, all

of them--all except the one which had lain tantalisingly on the top: the

one receipt signed by citizen Heriot. Sir Percy laughed lightly:

"Did you really think, my good friend," he said, "that I would be such a

demmed fool as to place my best weapon so readily to your hand?"

"Your best weapon, Sir Percy!" retorted Chauvelin, with a sneer. "What

use is it to you while we hold Lucile Clamette?"

"While I hold Lucile Clamette, you mean, my dear Monsieur Chambertin,"

riposted Blakeney with elaborate blandness.

"You hold Lucile Clamette? Bah! I defy you to drag a whole family like

that out of our clutches. The man a cripple, the children helpless! And

you think they can escape our vigilance when all our men are warned! How

do you think they are going to get across the river, Sir Percy, when

every bridge is closely watched? How will they get across Paris, when at

every gate our men are on the look-out for them?"

"They can't do it, my dear Monsieur Chambertin," rejoined Sir Percy

blandly, "else I were not here."

Then, as Chauvelin, fuming, irritated despite himself, as he always was

when he encountered that impudent Englishman, shrugged his shoulders in

token of contempt, Blakeney's powerful grasp suddenly clutched his arm.

"Let us understand one another, my good M. Chambertin," he said coolly.

"Those unfortunate Clamettes, as you say, are too helpless and too

numerous to smuggle across Paris with any chance of success. Therefore I

look to you to take them under your protection. They are all stowed away

comfortably at this moment in a conveyance which I have provided for

them. That conveyance is waiting at the bridgehead now. We could not

cross without your help; we could not get across Paris without your

august presence and your tricolour scarf of office. So you are coming

with us, my dear M. Chambertin," he continued, and, with force which was

quite irresistible, he began to drag his enemy after him towards the

door. "You are going to sit in that conveyance with the Clamettes, and I

myself will have the honour to drive you. And at every bridgehead you

will show your pleasing countenance and your scarf of office to the

guard and demand free passage for yourself and your family, as a

representative member of the Committee of Public Safety. And then we'll

enter Paris by the Porte d'Ivry and leave it by the Batignolles; and

everywhere your charming presence will lull the guards' suspicions to

rest. I pray you, come! There is no time to consider! At noon to-morrow,

without a moment's grace, my friend Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who has the

papers in his possession, will dispose of them as he thinks best unless

I myself do claim them from him."

While he spoke he continued to drag his enemy along with him, with an

assurance and an impudence which were past belief. Chauvelin was trying

to collect his thoughts; a whirl of conflicting plans were running riot

in his mind. The Scarlet Pimpernel in his power! At any point on the

road he could deliver him up to the nearest guard ... then still hold

the Clamettes and demand the papers....

"Too late, my dear Monsieur Chambertin!" Sir Percy's mocking voice broke

in, as if divining his thoughts. "You do not know where to find my

friend Ffoulkes, and at noon to-morrow, if I do not arrive to claim

those papers, there will not be a single ragamuffin in Paris who will

not be crying your shame and that of your precious colleagues upon the

housetops."

Chauvelin's whole nervous system was writhing with the feeling of

impotence. Mechanically, unresisting now, he followed his enemy down the

main staircase of the chateau and out through the wide open gates. He

could not bring himself to believe that he had been so completely

foiled, that this impudent adventurer had him once more in the hollow of

his hand.

"In the name of Satan, bring us back those papers!" Robespierre had

commanded. And now he--Chauvelin--was left in a maze of doubt; and the

vital alternative was hammering in his brain: "The Scarlet Pimpernel--or

those papers---" Which, in Satan's name, was the more important? Passion

whispered "The Scarlet Pimpernel!" but common sense and the future of

his party, the whole future of the Revolution mayhap, demanded those

compromising papers. And all the while he followed that relentless enemy

through the avenues of the park and down the lonely lane. Overhead the

trees of the forest of Sucy, nodding in a gentle breeze, seemed to mock

his perplexity.

He had not arrived at a definite decision when the river came in sight,

and when anon a carriage lanthorn threw a shaft of dim light through the

mist-laden air. Now he felt as if he were in a dream. He was thrust

unresisting into a closed chaise, wherein he felt the presence of

several other people--children, an old man who was muttering

ceaselessly. As in a dream he answered questions at the bridge to a

guard whom he knew well.

"You know me--Armand Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public Safety!"

As in a dream, he heard the curt words of command:

"Pass on, in the name of the Republic!"

And all the while the thought hammered in his brain: "Something must be

done! This is impossible! This cannot be! It is not I--Chauvelin--who am

sitting here, helpless, unresisting. It is not that impudent Scarlet

Pimpernel who is sitting there before me on the box, driving me to utter

humiliation!"

And yet it was all true. All real. The Clamette children were sitting in

front of him, clinging to Lucile, terrified of him even now. The old man

was beside him--imbecile and not understanding. The boy Etienne was up

on the box next to that audacious adventurer, whose broad back appeared

to Chauvelin like a rock on which all his hopes and dreams must for ever

be shattered.

The chaise rattled triumphantly through the Batignolles. It was then

broad daylight. A brilliant early autumn day after the rains. The sun,

the keen air, all mocked Chauvelin's helplessness, his humiliation. Long

before noon they passed St. Denis. Here the barouche turned off the main

road, halted at a small wayside house--nothing more than a cottage.

After which everything seemed more dreamlike than ever. All that

Chauvelin remembered of it afterwards was that he was once more alone in

a room with his enemy, who had demanded his signature to a number of

safe-conducts, ere he finally handed over the packet of papers to him.

"How do I know that they are all here?" he heard himself vaguely

muttering, while his trembling fingers handled that precious packet.

"That's just it!" his tormentor retorted airily. "You don't know. I

don't know myself," he added, with a light laugh. "And, personally, I

don't see how either of us can possibly ascertain. In the meanwhile, I

must bid you au revoir, my dear M. Chambertin. I am sorry that I cannot

provide you with a conveyance, and you will have to walk a league or

more ere you meet one, I fear me. We, in the meanwhile, will be well on

our way to Dieppe, where my yacht, the Day Dream, lies at anchor, and I

do not think that it will be worth your while to try and overtake us. I

thank you for the safe-conducts. They will make our journey exceedingly

pleasant. Shall I give your regards to M. le Marquis de Montorgueil or

to M. le Vicomte? They are on board the Day Dream, you know. Oh! and I

was forgetting! Lady Blakeney desired to be remembered to you."

The next moment he was gone. Chauvelin, standing at the window of the

wayside house, saw Sir Percy Blakeney once more mount the box of the

chaise. This time he had Sir Andrew Ffoulkes beside him. The Clamette

family were huddled together--happy and free--inside the vehicle. After

which there was the usual clatter of horses' hoofs, the creaking of

wheels, the rattle of chains. Chauvelin saw and heard nothing of that.

All that he saw at the last was Sir Percy's slender hand, waving him a

last adieu.

After which he was left alone with his thoughts. The packet of papers

was in his hand. He fingered it, felt its crispness, clutched it with a

fierce gesture, which was followed by a long-drawn-out sigh of intense

bitterness.

No one would ever know what it had cost him to obtain these papers. No

one would ever know how much he had sacrificed of pride, revenge and

hate in order to save a few shreds of his own party's honour.