"What hope is there for Sillery?"
"Absolutely none. He is as good as guillotined already."
"Has Edward no influence then?"
"Not now. Duport is no longer a man, but a machine--deadly, mysterious,
as yonder guillotine. He would denounce me, his wife, if the Republic
demanded it."
"God forbid! for you are our last friend."
Then there was another pause, and the man spoke again. He was evidently
broken-down by terror, and engrossed in his own safety.
"My fear _now_ is," he said, "that, if Sillery is doomed, the messenger
should deliver Edward's letter to Duport at all. It will only make
matters worse for us."
"Very true. It is no time for appeals to mercy," said Madame Duport.
"But you said you expected a letter for yourself."
"Ay; money to escape with. That's all I live for."
"Money from Edward?"
"No. From my kinswoman, Alice Gorman.--Hush! what was that?" he cried,
breaking into a whisper.
"Only a falling leaf.--How was she to reach you?"
"She was to send it to Edward, and he would forward it by the same
messenger that carried his letter to Duport."
"Pray Heaven that be lost too," said the lady. "You are safer in Paris.
Besides, money without a passport will avail nothing."
The old man gave a bitter laugh.
"They all desert me," said he querulously. "My nephew never shows sign;
Sillery is to perish, you fear to speak to me; even my poor wife chides
me."
"Surely Madame Lestrange--"
Here I started again, and slight as was the sound it broke up the
conference. They separated, one in either direction, the lady gliding
towards the benches in front of the guillotine, the old man (whom I now
knew to be Mr Lestrange) creeping under the shadow of the trees, and
presently lying at full length on a seat apparently fast asleep.
I curled myself up on a seat not far off, where I could watch him
without being seen by him. A little before dawn he got up, and after
carefully looking up and down the road, walked hurriedly back towards
the Place de la Revolution, where he lost himself among the now
increasing groups who mustered in the grey light for an early seat at
the spectacle of the hour.
I dropped into a seat not far off, and in the distance, among a row of
pale, hard, fatigued faces, I could see the deputy's wife, who never
looked our way, but sat with her eyes fixed on the dreadful machine.
The old man looked across at her once and again, and then tried
nervously to join in the general talk, and nod assent to the loyal
sentiments of those who crowded near.
As for me, I was too sick even to keep up appearances, and was thankful
when one rough interloper shouldered me from my place and sent me
sprawling down among the feet of the onlookers.
"Shame! Let the young citoyen have a view," called some one.
"We are all equal," said the usurper. "Let him take the place from me,
and he may have it."
I declined the challenge, and slunk off at the back of the crowd, which
was all too busy and expectant to heed whether I got a view or not.
What I heard that morning was bad enough. There was the sound of the
drums and the dull rumble of wheels, drowned by yells and shouts from
the men and screams from the women; then a silence, when no one stirred,
but every neck was craned forward to see; then a sudden tap of the drum;
then the harsh crash of the knife; then a gasp from a thousand throats,
and a great yell of "_Vive la Liberte_." Three times I heard it all.
Then the spectacle was at an end, and the crowd dispersed.
I kept a keen look-out among the groups that straggled past me for the
bent figure of Mr Lestrange, but no sign of him could I see. After
all, thought I, this errand of mine to Paris was to be all for nothing,
when close by I perceived Citoyenne Duport walking aloof from the crowd
and bending her steps towards the gardens. I resolved, cost what it
might, not to lose sight of her, and followed her at a distance till the
paths were quite deserted.
Then I quickened my steps and came up with her.
"Madame Duport," said I boldly, "I am the messenger you and Mr
Lestrange expect."
She looked round at me with blanched face, and held up her hand with a
gesture of silence.
"No, no," said she, "I am not Madame Duport. You mistake, my friend."
"Madame need not fear me; I am no _mouchard_. I overheard all you and
Mr Lestrange said last night. Here is the letter I bear to Depute
Duport. Either I must deliver it myself or ask madame to do so."
She held out her hand for it.
"We are at your mercy," said she. "Is this from Lord Edward himself?"
"I know nothing of it, madame," said I, and recounted the story of how I
had come by the missive in the wood near Morlaix.