CHAPTER I

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_LORD TONY'S WIFE_

BARONESS ORCZY

By BARONESS ORCZY

LORD TONY'S WIFE

LEATHERFACE

THE BRONZE EAGLE

A BRIDE OF THE PLAINS

THE LAUGHING CAVALIER

"UNTO CAESAR"

EL DORADO

MEADOWSWEET

THE NOBLE ROGUE

THE HEART OF A WOMAN

PETTICOAT RULE

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY NEW YORK

LORD TONY'S WIFE

AN ADVENTURE OF THE

SCARLET PIMPERNEL

BY

BARONESS ORCZY

AUTHOR OF "THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL," "THE LAUGHING

CAVALIER," ETC.

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1917,

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To

DORA COUNTESS OF CHESTERFIELD

A TOKEN OF FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.

EMMUSKA ORCZY.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PROLOGUE: NANTES, 1789 11

BOOK ONE: BATH, 1793

CHAPTER

I THE MOOR 43

II THE BOTTOM INN 50

III THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS 78

IV THE FATHER 100

V THE NEST 109

VI THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 123

VII MARGUERITE 130

VIII THE ROAD TO PORTISHEAD 134

IX THE COAST OF FRANCE 147

BOOK TWO: NANTES, DECEMBER, 1793

I THE TIGER'S LAIR 163

II LE BOUFFAY 195

III THE FOWLERS 212

IV THE NET 234

V THE MESSAGE OF HOPE 256

VI THE RAT MORT 267

VII THE FRACAS IN THE TAVERN 279

VIII THE ENGLISH ADVENTURERS 299

IX THE PROCONSUL 313

X LORD TONY 327

PROLOGUE

NANTES, 1789

I

"Tyrant! tyrant! tyrant!"

It was Pierre who spoke, his voice was hardly raised above a murmur, but

there was such an intensity of passion expressed in his face, in the

fingers of his hand which closed slowly and convulsively as if they were

clutching the throat of a struggling viper, there was so much hate in

those muttered words, so much power, such compelling and awesome

determination that an ominous silence fell upon the village lads and the

men who sat with him in the low narrow room of the auberge des Trois

Vertus.

Even the man in the tattered coat and threadbare breeches, who--perched

upon the centre table--had been haranguing the company on the subject of

the Rights of Man, paused in his peroration and looked down on Pierre

half afraid of that fierce flame of passionate hate which his own words

had helped to kindle.

The silence, however, had only lasted a few moments, the next Pierre was

on his feet, and a cry like that of a bull in a slaughter-house escaped

his throat.

"In the name of God!" he shouted, "let us cease all that senseless

talking. Haven't we planned enough and talked enough to satisfy our

puling consciences? The time has come to strike, mes amis, to strike I

say, to strike at those cursed aristocrats, who have made us what we

are--ignorant, wretched, downtrodden--senseless clods to work our

fingers to the bone, our bodies till they break so that they may wallow

in their pleasures and their luxuries! Strike, I say!" he reiterated

while his eyes glowed and his breath came and went through his throat

with a hissing sound. "Strike! as the men and women struck in Paris on

that great day in July. To them the Bastille stood for tyranny, and they

struck at it as they would at the head of a tyrant--and the tyrant

cowered, cringed, made terms--he was frightened at the wrath of the

people! That is what happened in Paris! That is what must happen in

Nantes. The chateau of the duc de Kernogan is our Bastille! Let us

strike at it to-night, and if the arrogant aristocrat resists, we'll

raze his house to the ground. The hour, the day, the darkness are all

propitious. The arrangements hold good. The neighbours are ready.

Strike, I say!"

He brought his hard fist crashing down upon the table, so that mugs and

bottles rattled: his enthusiasm had fired all his hearers: his hatred

and his lust of revenge had done more in five minutes than all the

tirades of the agitators sent down from Paris to instil revolutionary

ideas into the slow-moving brains of village lads.

"Who will give the signal?" queried one of the older men quietly.

"I will!" came a lusty response from Pierre.

He strode to the door, and all the men jumped to their feet, ready to

follow him, dragged into this hot-headed venture by the mere force of

one man's towering passion. They followed Pierre like sheep--sheep that

have momentarily become intoxicated--sheep that have become fierce--a

strange sight truly--and yet one that the man in the tattered coat who

had done so much speechifying lately, watched with eager interest and

presently related with great wealth of detail to M. de Mirabeau the

champion of the people.

"It all came about through the death of a pair of pigeons," he said.

The death of the pigeons, however, was only the spark which set all

these turbulent passions ablaze. They had been smouldering for half a

century, and had been ready to burst into flames for the past decade.

Antoine Melun, the wheelwright, who was to have married Louise, Pierre's

sister, had trapped a pair of pigeons in the woods of M. le duc de

Kernogan. He had done it to assert his rights as a man--he did not want

the pigeons. Though he was a poor man, he was no poorer than hundreds of

peasants for miles around: but he paid imposts and taxes until every

particle of profit which he gleaned from his miserable little plot of

land went into the hands of the collectors, whilst M. le duc de Kernogan

paid not one sou towards the costs of the State, and he had to live on

what was left of his own rye and wheat after M. le duc's pigeons had had

their fill of them.

Antoine Melun did not want to eat the pigeons which he had trapped, but

he desired to let M. le duc de Kernogan know that God and Nature had

never intended all the beasts and birds of the woods to be the exclusive

property of one man, rather than another. So he trapped and killed two

pigeons and M. le duc's head-bailiff caught him in the act of carrying

those pigeons home.

Whereupon Antoine was arrested for poaching and thieving: he was tried

at Nantes under the presidency of M. le duc de Kernogan, and ten minutes

ago, while the man in the tattered coat was declaiming to a number of

peasant lads in the coffee-room of the auberge des Trois Vertus on the

subject of their rights as men and citizens, some one brought the news

that Antoine Melun had just been condemned to death and would be hanged

on the morrow.

That was the spark which had fanned Pierre Adet's hatred of the

aristocrats to a veritable conflagration: the news of Antoine Melun's

fate was the bleat which rallied all those human sheep around their

leader. For Pierre had naturally become their leader because his hatred

of M. le duc was more tangible, more powerful than theirs. Pierre had

had more education than they. His father, Jean Adet the miller, had sent

him to a school in Nantes, and when Pierre came home M. le cure of

Vertou took an interest in him and taught him all he knew himself--which

was not much--in the way of philosophy and the classics. But later on

Pierre took to reading the writings of M. Jean-Jacques Rousseau and soon

knew the _Contrat Social_ almost by heart. He had also read the articles

in M. Marat's newspaper _L'ami du Peuple!_ and, like Antoine Melun, the

wheelwright, he had got it into his head that it was not God, nor yet

Nature who had intended one man to starve while another gorged himself

on all the good things of this world.

He did not, however, speak of these matters, either to his father or to

his sister or to M. le cure, but he brooded over them, and when the

price of bread rose to four sous he muttered curses against M. le duc de

Kernogan, and when famine prices ruled throughout the district those

curses became overt threats; and by the time that the pinch of hunger

was felt in Vertou Pierre's passion of fury against the duc de Kernogan

had turned to a frenzy of hate against the entire noblesse of France.

Still he said nothing to his father, nothing to his mother and sister.

But his father knew. Old Jean would watch the storm-clouds which

gathered on Pierre's lowering brow; he heard the muttered curses which

escaped from Pierre's lips whilst he worked for the liege-lord whom he

hated. But Jean was a wise man and knew how useless it is to put out a

feeble hand in order to stem the onrush of a torrent. He knew how

useless are the words of wisdom from an old man to quell the rebellious

spirit of the young.

Jean was on the watch. And evening after evening when the work on the

farm was done, Pierre would sit in the small low room of the auberge

with other lads from the village talking, talking of their wrongs, of

the arrogance of the aristocrats, the sins of M. le duc and his family,

the evil conduct of the King and the immorality of the Queen: and men in

ragged coats and tattered breeches came in from Nantes, and even from

Paris, in order to harangue these village lads and told them yet further

tales of innumerable wrongs suffered by the people at the hands of the

aristos, and stuffed their heads full of schemes for getting even once

and for all with those men and women who fattened on the sweat of the

poor and drew their luxury from the hunger and the toil of the

peasantry.

Pierre sucked in these harangues through every pore: they were meat and

drink to him. His hate and passions fed upon these effusions till his

whole being was consumed by a maddening desire for reprisals, for

vengeance--for the lust of triumph over those whom he had been taught to

fear.

And in the low, narrow room of the auberge the fevered heads of village

lads were bent together in conclave, and the ravings and shoutings of a

while ago were changed to whisperings and low murmurings behind barred

doors and shuttered windows. Men exchanged cryptic greetings when they

met in the village street, enigmatical signs passed between them while

they worked: strangers came and went at dead of night to and from the

neighbouring villages. M. le duc's overseers saw nothing, heard nothing,

guessed nothing. M. le cure saw much and old Jean Adet guessed a great

deal, but they said nothing, for nothing then would have availed.

Then came the catastrophe.

II

Pierre pushed open the outer door of the auberge des Trois Vertus and

stepped out under the porch. A gust of wind caught him in the face. The

night, so the chronicles of the time tell us, was as dark as pitch: on

ahead lay the lights of the city flickering in the gale: to the left the

wide tawny ribbon of the river wound its turbulent course toward the

ocean, the booming of the waters swollen by the recent melting of the

snow sounded like the weird echoes of invisible cannons far away.

Without hesitation Pierre advanced. His little troop followed him in

silence. They were a little sobered now that they came out into the open

and that the fumes of cider and of hot, perspiring humanity no longer

obscured their vision or inflamed their brain.

They knew whither Pierre was going. It had all been

pre-arranged--throughout this past summer, in the musty parlour of the

auberge, behind barred doors and shuttered windows--all they had to do

was to follow Pierre, whom they had tacitly chosen as their leader. They

walked on behind him, their hands buried in the pockets of their thin,

tattered breeches, their heads bent forward against the fury of the

gale.

Pierre made straight for the mill--his home--where his father lived and

where Louise was even now crying her eyes out because Antoine Melun, her

sweetheart, had been condemned to be hanged for killing two pigeons.

At the back of the mill was the dwelling house and beyond it a small

farmery, for Jean Adet owned a little bit of land and would have been

fairly well off if the taxes had not swallowed up all the money that he

made out of the sale of his rye and his hay. Just here the ground rose

sharply to a little hillock which dominated the flat valley of the Loire

and commanded a fine view over the more distant villages.

Pierre skirted the mill and without looking round to see if the others

followed him he struck squarely to the right up a narrow lane bordered

by tall poplars, and which led upwards to the summit of the little

hillock around which clustered the tumble-down barns of his father's

farmery.

The gale lashed the straight, tall stems of the poplars until they bent

nearly double, and each tiny bare twig sighed and whispered as if in

pain. Pierre strode on and the others followed in silence. They were

chilled to the bone under their scanty clothes, but they followed on

with grim determination, set teeth, and anger and hate seething in their

hearts.

The top of the rising ground was reached. It was pitch dark, and the men

when they halted fell up against one another trying to get a foothold on

the sodden ground. But Pierre seemed to have eyes like a cat. He only

paused one moment to get his bearings, then--still without a word--he

set to work. A large barn and a group of small circular straw ricks

loomed like solid masses out of the darkness--black, silhouetted against

the black of the stormy sky. Pierre turned toward the barn: those of his

comrades who were in the forefront of the small crowd saw him

disappearing inside one of those solid shadowy masses that looked so

ghostlike in the night.

Anon those who watched and who happened to be facing the interior of the

barn saw sparks from a tinder flying in every direction: the next

moment they could see Pierre himself quite clearly. He was standing in

the middle of the barn and intent on lighting a roughly-fashioned torch

with his tinder: soon the resin caught a spark and Pierre held the torch

inclined toward the ground so that the flames could lick their way up

the shaft. The flickering light cast a weird glow and deep grotesque

shadows upon the face and figure of the young man. His hair, lanky and

dishevelled, fell over his eyes; his mouth and jaw, illumined from below

by the torch, looked unnaturally large, and showed his teeth gleaming

white, like the fangs of a beast of prey. His shirt was torn open at the

neck, and the sleeves of his coat were rolled up to the elbow. He seemed

not to feel either the cold from without or the scorching heat of the

flaming torch in his hand. But he worked deliberately and calmly,

without haste or febrile movements: grim determination held his

excitement in check.

At last his work was done. The men who had pressed forward, in order to

watch him, fell back as he advanced, torch in hand. They knew exactly

what he was going to do, they had thought it all out, planned it, spoken

of it till even their unimaginative minds had visualised this coming

scene with absolutely realistic perception. And yet, now that the

supreme hour had come, now that they saw Pierre--torch in hand--prepared

to give the signal which would set ablaze the seething revolt of the

countryside, their heart seemed to stop its beating within their body;

they held their breath, their toil-worn hands went up to their throats

as if to repress that awful choking sensation which was so like fear.

But Pierre had no such hesitations; if his breath seemed to choke him as

it reached his throat, if it escaped through his set teeth with a

strange whistling sound, it was because his excitement was that of a

hungry beast who had sighted his prey and is ready to spring and devour.

His hand did not shake, his step was firm: the gusts of wind caught the

flame of his torch till the sparks flew in every direction and scorched

his hair and his hands, and while the others recoiled he strode on, to

the straw-rick that was nearest.

For one moment he held the torch aloft. There was triumph now in his

eyes, in his whole attitude. He looked out into the darkness far away

which seemed all the more impenetrable beyond the restricted circle of

flickering torchlight. It seemed as if he would wrest from that inky

blackness all the secrets which it hid--all the enthusiasm, the

excitement, the passions, the hatred which he would have liked to set

ablaze as he would the straw-ricks anon.

"Are you ready, mes amis?" he called.

"Aye! aye!" they replied--not gaily, not lustily, but calmly and under

their breath.

One touch of the torch and the dry straw began to crackle; a gust of

wind caught the flame and whipped it into energy; it crept up the side

of the little rick like a glowing python that wraps its prey in its

embrace. Another gust of wind, and the flame leapt joyously up to the

pinnacle of the rick, and sent forth other tongues to lick and to lick,

to enfold the straw, to devour, to consume.

But Pierre did not wait to see the consummation of his work of

destruction. Already with a few rapid strides he had reached his

father's second straw-rick, and this too he set alight, and then another

and another, until six blazing furnaces sent their lurid tongues of

flames, twisting and twirling, writhing and hissing through the stormy

night.

Within the space of two minutes the whole summit of the hillock seemed

to be ablaze, and Pierre, like a god of fire, torch in hand, seemed to

preside over and command a multitude of ever-spreading flames to his

will. Excitement had overmastered him now, the lust to destroy was upon

him, and excitement had seized all the others too.

There was shouting and cursing, and laughter that sounded mirthless and

forced, and calls to Pierre, and oaths of revenge. Memory, like an

evil-intentioned witch, was riding invisibly in the darkness, and she

touched each seething brain with her fever-giving wand. Every man had an

outrage to remember, an injustice to recall, and strong, brown fists

were shaken aloft in the direction of the chateau de Kernogan, whose

lights glimmered feebly in the distance beyond the Loire.

"Death to the tyrant! A la lanterne les aristos! The people's hour has

come at last! No more starvation! No more injustice! Equality! Liberty!

A mort les aristos!"

The shouts, the curses, the crackling flames, the howling of the wind,

the soughing of the trees, made up a confusion of sounds which seemed

hardly of this earth; the blazing ricks, the flickering, red light of

the flames had finally transformed the little hillock behind the mill

into another Brocken on whose summit witches and devils do of a truth

hold their revels.

"A moi!" shouted Pierre again, and he threw his torch down upon the

ground and once more made for the barn. The others followed him. In the

barn were such weapons as these wretched, penniless peasants had managed

to collect--scythes, poles, axes, saws, anything that would prove useful

for the destruction of the chateau de Kernogan and the proposed

brow-beating of M. le duc and his family. All the men trooped in in the

wake of Pierre. The entire hillock was now a blaze of light--lurid and

red and flickering--alternately teased and fanned and subdued by the

gale, so that at times every object stood out clearly cut, every blade

of grass, every stone in bold relief, and in the ruts and fissures,

every tiny pool of muddy water shimmered like strings of fire-opals:

whilst at others, a pall of inky darkness, smoke-laden and impenetrable

would lie over the ground and erase the outline of farm-buildings and

distant mill and of the pushing and struggling mass of humanity inside

the barn.

But Pierre, heedless of light and darkness, of heat or of cold,

proceeded quietly and methodically to distribute the primitive

implements of warfare to this crowd of ignorant men, who were by now

over ready for mischief: and with every weapon which he placed in

willing hands, he found the right words for willing ears--words which

would kindle passion and lust of vengeance most readily where they lay

dormant, or would fan them into greater vigour where they smouldered.

"For thee this scythe, Hector Lebrun," he would say to a tall, lanky

youth whose emaciated arms and bony hands were stretched with longing

toward the bright piece of steel; "remember last year's harvest, the

heavy tax thou wert forced to pay, so that not one sou of profit went

into thy pocket, and thy mother starved whilst M. le duc and his brood

feasted and danced, and shiploads of corn were sunk in the Loire lest

abundance made bread too cheap for the poor!

"For thee this pick-axe, Henri Meunier! Remember the new roof on thy

hut, which thou didst build to keep the wet off thy wife's bed, who was

crippled with ague--and the heavy impost levied on thee by the

tax-collector for this improvement to thy miserable hovel.

"This pole for thee, Charles Blanc! Remember the beating administered to

thee by the duc's bailiff for daring to keep a tame rabbit to amuse thy

children!

"Remember! Remember, mes amis!" he added exultantly, "remember every

wrong you have endured, every injustice, every blow! remember your

poverty and his wealth, your crusts of dry bread and his succulent

meals, your rags and his silks and velvets, remember your starving

children and ailing mother, your care-laden wife and toil-worn

daughters! Forget nothing, mes amis, to-night, and at the gates of the

chateau de Kernogan demand of its arrogant owner wrong for wrong and

outrage for outrage."

A deafening cry of triumph greeted this peroration, scythes and sickles

and axes and poles were brandished in the air and several scores of

hands were stretched out to Pierre and clasped in this newly-formed bond

of vengeful fraternity.

III

Then it was that with vigorous play of the elbows, Jean Adet, the

miller, forced his way through the crowd till he stood face to face with

his son.

"Unfortunate!" he cried, "what is all this? What dost thou propose to

do? Whither are ye all going?"

"To Kernogan!" they all shouted in response.

"En avant, Pierre! we follow!" cried some of them impatiently.

But Jean Adet--who was a powerful man despite his years--had seized

Pierre by the arm and dragged him to a distant corner of the barn:

"Pierre!" he said in tones of command, "I forbid thee in the name of thy

duty and the obedience which thou dost owe to me and to thy mother, to

move another step in this hot-headed adventure. I was on the high-road,

walking homewards, when that conflagration and the senseless cries of

these poor lads warned me that some awful mischief was afoot. Pierre!

my son! I command thee to lay that weapon down."

But Pierre--who in his normal state was a dutiful son and sincerely fond

of his father--shook himself free from Jean Adet's grasp.

"Father!" he said loudly and firmly, "this is no time for interference.

We are all of us men here and know our own minds. What we mean to do

to-night we have thought on and planned for weeks and months. I pray

you, father, let me be! I am not a child and I have work to do."

"Not a child?" exclaimed the old man as he turned appealingly to the

lads who had stood by, silent and sullen during this little scene. "Not

a child? But you are all only children, my lads. You don't know what you

are doing. You don't know what terrible consequences this mad escapade

will bring upon us all, upon the whole village, aye! and the

country-side. Do you suppose for one moment that the chateau of Kernogan

will fall at the mercy of a few ignorant unarmed lads like yourselves?

Why! four hundred of you would not succeed in forcing your way even as

far as the courtyard of the palace. M. le duc has had wind for some time

of your turbulent meetings at the auberge: he has kept an armed guard

inside his castle yard for weeks past, a company of artillery with two

guns hoisted upon his walls. My poor lads! you are running straight to

ruin! Go home, I beg of you! Forget this night's escapade! Nothing but

misery to you and yours can result from it."

They listened quietly, if surlily, to Jean Adet's impassioned words. Far

be it from their thoughts to flout or to mock him. Paternal authority

commanded respect even among the most rough; but they all felt that they

had gone too far now to draw back: the savour of anticipated revenge had

been too sweet to be forgone quite so readily, and Pierre with his

vigorous personality, his glowing eloquence, his compelling power had

more influence over them than the sober counsels of prudence and the

wise admonitions of old Jean Adet. Not one word was spoken, but with an

instinctive gesture every man grasped his weapon more firmly and then

turned to Pierre, thus electing him their spokesman.

Pierre too had listened in silence to all that his father said, striving

to hide the burning anxiety which was gnawing at his heart, lest his

comrades allowed themselves to be persuaded by the old man's counsels

and their ardour be cooled by the wise dictates of prudence. But when

Jean Adet had finished speaking, and Pierre saw each man thus grasping

his weapon all the more firmly and in silence, a cry of triumph escaped

his lips.

"It is all in vain, father," he cried, "our minds are made up. A host of

angels from heaven would not bar our way now to victory and to

vengeance."

"Pierre!" admonished the old man.

"It is too late, my father," said Pierre firmly, "en avant, lads!"

"Yes! en avant! en avant!" assented some, "we have wasted too much time

as it is."

"But, unfortunate lads," admonished the old man, "what are you going to

do?--a handful of you--where are you going?"

"We go straight to the cross-roads now, father," said Pierre, firmly.

"The firing of your ricks--for which I humbly crave your pardon--is the

preconcerted signal which will bring the lads from all the neighbouring

villages--from Goulaine and les Sorinieres and Doulon and Tourne-Bride

to our meeting place. Never you fear! There will be more than four

hundred of us and a company of paid soldiers is not like to frighten us.

Eh, lads?"

"No! no! en avant!" they shouted and murmured impatiently, "there has

been too much talking already and we have wasted precious time."

"Pierre!" entreated the miller.

But no one listened to the old man now. A general movement down the

hillock had already begun and Pierre, turning his back on his father,

had pushed his way to the front of the crowd and was now leading the way

down the slope. Up on the summit the fire was already burning low; only

from time to time an imprisoned tongue of flame would dart out of the

dying embers and leap fitfully up into the night. A dull red glow

illumined the small farmery and the mill and the slowly moving mass of

men along the narrow road, whilst clouds of black, dense smoke were

tossed about by the gale. Pierre walked with head erect. He ceased to

think of his father and he never looked back to see if the others

followed him. He knew that they did: like the straw-ricks a while ago,

they had become the prey of a consuming fire: the fire of their own

passion which had caught them and held them and would not leave them now

until their ardour was consumed in victory or defeat.

IV

M. le duc de Kernogan had just finished dinner when Jacques Labruniere,

his head-bailiff, came to him with the news that a rabble crowd,

composed of the peasantry of Goulaine and Vertou and the neighbouring

villages, had assembled at the cross-roads, there held revolutionary

speeches, and was even now marching toward the castle still shouting

and singing and brandishing a miscellaneous collection of weapons

chiefly consisting of scythes and axes.

"The guard is under arms, I imagine," was M. le duc's comment on this

not altogether unforeseen piece of news.

"Everything is in perfect order," replied the head-bailiff cooly, "for

the defence of M. le duc and his property--and of Mademoiselle."

M. le duc, who had been lounging in one of the big armchairs in the

stately hall of Kernogan, jumped to his feet at these words: his cheeks

suddenly pallid, and a look of deadly fear in his eyes.

"Mademoiselle," he said hurriedly, "by G--d, Labruniere, I had

forgotten--momentarily----"

"M. le duc?" stammered the bailiff in anxious inquiry.

"Mademoiselle de Kernogan is on her way home--even now--she spent the

day with Mme. le Marquise d'Herbignac--she was to return at about eight

o'clock.... If those devils meet her carriage on the road...."

"There is no cause for anxiety, M. le duc," broke in Labruniere

hurriedly. "I will see that half a dozen men get to horse at once and go

and meet Mademoiselle and escort her home...."

"Yes ... yes ... Labruniere," murmured the duc, who seemed very much

overcome with terror now that his daughter's safety was in jeopardy,

"see to it at once. Quick! quick! I shall wax crazy with anxiety."

While Labruniere ran to make the necessary arrangements for an efficient

escort for Mademoiselle de Kernogan and gave the sergeant in charge of

the posse the necessary directions, M. le duc remained motionless,

huddled up in the capacious armchair, his head buried in his hand,

shivering in front of the huge fire which burned in the monumental

hearth, himself the prey of nameless, overwhelming terror.

He knew--none better--the appalling hatred wherewith he and all his

family and belongings were regarded by the local peasantry. Astride upon

his manifold rights--feudal, territorial, seignorial rights--he had all

his life ridden roughshod over the prejudices, the miseries, the

undoubted rights of the poor people, who were little better than serfs

in the possession of the high and mighty duc de Kernogan. He also

knew--none better--that gradually, very gradually it is true, but with

unerring certainty, those same downtrodden, ignorant, miserable and

half-starved peasants were turning against their oppressors, that riots

and outrages had occurred in many rural districts in the North and that

the insidious poison of social revolution was gradually creeping toward

the South and West, and had already infected the villages and small

townships which were situated quite unpleasantly close to Nantes and to

Kernogan.

For this reason he had kept a company of artillery at his own expense

inside the precincts of his chateau, and with the aristocrat's open

contempt for this peasantry which it had not yet learned to fear, he had

disdained to take further measures for the repression of local

gatherings, and would not pay the village rabble the compliment of being

afraid of them in any way.

But with his daughter Yvonne in the open roadway on the very night when

an assembly of that same rabble was obviously bent on mischief, matters

became very serious. Insult, outrage or worse might befall the proud

aristocrat's only child, and knowing that from these people, whom she

had been taught to look upon as little better than beasts, she could

expect neither mercy nor chivalry, the duc de Kernogan within his

unassailable castle felt for his daughter's safety the most abject, the

most deadly fear which hath ever unnerved any man.

Labruniere a few minutes later did his best to reassure his master.

"I have ordered the men to take the best horses out of the stables, M.

le duc," he said, "and to cut across the fields toward la Gramoire so as

to intercept Mademoiselle's coach ere it reach the cross-roads. I feel

confident that there is no cause for alarm," he added emphatically.

"Pray God you are right, Labruniere," murmured the duc feebly. "Do you

know how strong the rabble crowd is?"

"No, Monseigneur, not exactly. Camille the under-bailiff, who brought me

the news, was riding homewards across the meadows about an hour ago when

he saw a huge conflagration which seemed to come from the back of Adet's

mill: the whole sky has been lit up by a lurid light for the past hour,

and I fancied myself that Adet's straw must be on fire. But Camille

pushed his horse up the rising ground which culminates at Adet's

farmery. It seems that he heard a great deal of shouting which did not

seem to be accompanied by any attempt at putting out the fire. So he

dismounted and led his horse round the hillock skirting Adet's farm

buildings so that he should not be seen. Under cover of darkness he

heard and saw the old miller with his son Pierre engaged in distributing

scythes, poles and axes to a crowd of youngsters and haranguing them

wildly all the time. He also heard Pierre Adet speak of the

conflagration as a preconcerted signal, and say that he and his mates

would meet the lads of the neighbouring villages at the cross-roads ...

and that four hundred of them would then march on Kernogan and pillage

the castle."

"Bah!" quoth M. le duc in a voice hoarse with execration and contempt,

"a lot of oafs who will give the hangman plenty of trouble to-morrow.

As for that Adet and his son, they shall suffer for this ... I can

promise them that.... If only Mademoiselle were home!" he added with a

heartrending sigh.

V

Indeed, had M. le duc de Kernogan been gifted with second sight, the

agony of mind which he was enduring would have been aggravated an

hundredfold. At the very moment when the head-bailiff was doing his best

to reassure his liege-lord as to the safety of Mlle. de Kernogan, her

coach was speeding along from the chateau of Herbignac toward those same

cross-roads where a couple of hundred hot-headed peasant lads were

planning as much mischief as their unimaginative minds could conceive.

The fury of the gale had in no way abated, and now a heavy rain was

falling--a drenching, sopping rain which in the space of half an hour

had added five centimetres to the depth of the mud on the roads, and had

in that same space of time considerably damped the enthusiasm of some of

the poor lads. Three score or so had assembled from Goulaine, two score

from les Sorinieres, some three dozen from Doulon: they had rallied to

the signal in hot haste, gathered their scythes and spades, very eager

and excited, and had reached the cross-roads which were much nearer to

their respective villages than to Jean Adet's farm and the mill, even

while the old man was admonishing his son and the lads of Vertou on the

summit of the blazing hillock. Here they had spent half an hour in

cooling their heels and their tempers under the drenching rain--wet to

the skin--fuming and fretting at the delay.

But even so--damped in ardour and chilled to the marrow--they were

still a dangerous crowd and prudence ought to have dictated to

Mademoiselle de Kernogan the wiser course of ordering her coachman

Jean-Marie to head his horses back toward Herbignac the moment that the

outrider reported that a mob, armed with scythes, spades and axes, held

the cross-roads, and that it would be dangerous for the coach to advance

any further.

Already for the past few minutes the sound of loud shouting had been

heard even above the tramp of the horses and the clatter of the coach.

Jean-Marie had pulled up and sent one of the outriders on ahead to see

what was amiss: the man returned with very unpleasant tidings--in his

opinion it certainly would be dangerous to go any further. The mob

appeared bent on mischief: he had heard threats and curses all levelled

against M. le duc de Kernogan--the conflagration up at Vertou was

evidently a signal which would bring along a crowd of malcontents from

all the neighbouring villages. He was for turning back forthwith. But

Mademoiselle put her head out of the window just then and asked what was

amiss. On hearing that Jean-Marie and the postilion and outriders were

inclined to be afraid of a mob of peasant lads who had assembled at the

cross-roads, and were apparently threatening to do mischief, she chided

them for their cowardice.

"Jean-Marie," she called scornfully to the old coachman, who had been in

her father's service for close on half a century, "do you really mean to

tell me that you are afraid of that rabble!"

"Why no! Mademoiselle, so please you," replied the old man, nettled in

his pride by the taunt, "but the temper of the peasantry round here has

been ugly of late, and 'tis your safety I have got to guard."

"'Tis my commands you have got to obey," retorted Mademoiselle with a

gay little laugh which mitigated the peremptoriness of her tone. "If my

father should hear that there's trouble on the road he will die of

anxiety if I do not return: so whip up the horses, Jean-Marie. No one

will dare to attack the coach."

"But Mademoiselle----" remonstrated the old man.

"Ah ca!" she broke in more impatiently, "am I to be openly disobeyed?

Best join that rabble, Jean-Marie, if you have no respect for my

commands."

Thus twitted by Mademoiselle's sharp tongue, Jean-Marie could not help

but obey. He tried to peer into the distance through the veil of

blinding rain which beat against his face and stung the horses to

restlessness. But the light from the coach lanthorns prevented his

seeing clearly into the darkness beyond. Still it seemed to him that on

ahead a dense and solid mass was moving toward the coach, also that the

sound of shouting and of excited humanity was considerably nearer than

it had been before. No doubt the mob had perceived the lights of the

coach, and was even now making towards it, with what intent Jean-Marie

divined all too accurately.

But he had his orders, and, though he was an old and trusted servant,

disobedience these days was not even to be thought of. So he did as he

was bid. He whipped up his horses, which were high-spirited and answered

to the lash with a bound and a plunge forward. Mlle. de Kernogan leaned

back on the cushions of the coach. She was satisfied that Jean-Marie had

done as he was told, and she was not in the least afraid.

But less than five minutes later she had a rude awakening. The coach

gave a terrific lurch. The horses reared and plunged, there was a

deafening clamour all around: men were shouting and cursing: there was

the clash of wood and iron and the cracking of whips: the tramp of

horses' hoofs in the soft ground, and the dull thud of human bodies

falling in the mud, followed by loud cries of pain. There was the sudden

crash of broken glass, the coach lanthorns had been seized and broken:

it seemed to Yvonne de Kernogan that out of the darkness faces distorted

with fury were peering at her through the window-panes. But through all

the confusion, the coach kept moving on. Jean-Marie stuck to his post,

as did also the postilion and the four outriders, and with whip and

tongue they urged their horses to break through the crowd regardless of

human lives, knocking and trampling down men and lads heedless of curses

and blasphemies which were hurled on them and on the occupants of the

coach, whoever they might be.

The next moment, however, the coach came to a sudden halt, and a wild

cry of triumph drowned the groans of the injured and the dying.

"Kernogan! Kernogan!" was shouted from every side.

"Adet! Adet!"

"You limbs of Satan," cried Jean-Marie, "you'll rue this night's work

and weep tears of blood for the rest of your lives. Let me tell you

that! Mademoiselle is in the coach. When M. le duc hears of this, there

will be work for the hangman...."

"Mademoiselle in the coach," broke in a hoarse voice with a rough tone

of command. "Let's look at her...."

"Aye! Aye! let's have a look at Mademoiselle," came with a volley of

objurgations and curses from the crowd.

"You devils--you would dare?" protested Jean-Marie.

Within the coach Yvonne de Kernogan hardly dared to breathe. She sat

bolt upright, her cape held tightly round her shoulders: her eyes

dilated now with excitement, if not with fear, were fixed upon the

darkness beyond the window-panes. She could see nothing, but she _felt_

the presence of that hostile crowd who had succeeded in over-powering

Jean-Marie and were intent on doing her harm.

But she belonged to a caste which never reckoned cowardice amongst its

many faults. During these few moments when she knew that her life hung

on the merest thread of chance, she neither screamed nor fainted but sat

rigidly still, her heart beating in unison with the agonising seconds

which went so fatefully by. And even now, when the carriage door was

torn violently open and even through the darkness she discerned vaguely

the forms of these avowed enemies close beside her, and anon felt a

rough hand seize her wrist, she did not move, but said quite calmly,

with hardly a tremor in her voice:

"Who are you? and what do you want?"

An outburst of harsh and ironical laughter came in response.

"Who are we, my fine lady?" said the foremost man in the crowd, he who

had seized her wrist and was half in and half out of the coach at this

moment, "we are the men who throughout our lives have toiled and starved

whilst you and such as you travel in fine coaches and eat your fill.

What we want? Why, just the spectacle of such a fine lady as you are

being knocked down into the mud just as our wives and daughters are if

they happen to be in the way when your coach is passing. Isn't that it,

mes amis?"

"Aye! aye!" they replied, shouting lustily. "Into the mud with the fine

lady. Out with her, Adet. Let's have a look at Mademoiselle how she will

look with her face in the mud. Out with her, quick!"

But the man who was still half in and half out of the coach, and who had

hold of Mademoiselle's wrist did not obey his mates immediately. He drew

her nearer to him and suddenly threw his rough, begrimed arms round

her, and with one hand pulled back her hood, then placing two fingers

under her chin, he jerked it up till her face was level with his own.

Yvonne de Kernogan was certainly no coward, but at the loathsome contact

of this infuriated and vengeful creature, she was overcome with such a

hideous sense of fear that for the moment consciousness almost left her:

not completely alas! for though she could not distinguish his face she

could feel his hot breath upon her cheeks, she could smell the

nauseating odour of his damp clothes, and she could hear his hoarse

mutterings as for the space of a few seconds he held her thus close to

him in an embrace which to her was far more awesome than that of death.

"And just to punish you, my fine lady," he said in a whisper which sent

a shudder of horror right through her, "to punish you for what you are,

the brood of tyrants, proud, disdainful, a budding tyrant yourself, to

punish you for every misery my mother and sister have had to endure, for

every luxury which you have enjoyed, I will kiss you on the lips and the

cheeks and just between your white throat and chin and never as long as

you live if you die this night or live to be an hundred will you be able

to wash off those kisses showered upon you by one who hates and loathes

you--a miserable peasant whom you despise and who in your sight is lower

far than your dogs."

Yvonne, with eyes closed, hardly breathed, but through the veil of

semi-consciousness which mercifully wrapped her senses, she could still

hear those awful words, and feel the pollution of those loathsome kisses

with which--true to his threat--this creature--half man, wholly devil,

whom she could not see, but whom she hated and feared as she would Satan

himself--now covered her face and throat.

After that she remembered nothing more. Consciousness mercifully forsook

her altogether. When she recovered her senses, she was within the

precincts of the castle: a confused murmur of voices reached her ears,

and her father's arms were round her. Gradually she distinguished what

was being said: she gathered the threads of the story which Jean-Marie

and the postilion and outriders were hastily unravelling in response to

M. le duc's commands.

These men of course knew nothing of the poignant little drama which had

been enacted inside the coach. All they knew was that they had been

surrounded by a rough crowd--a hundred or so strong--who brandished

scythes and spades, that they had made valiant efforts to break through

the crowd by whipping up their horses, but that suddenly some of those

devils more plucky than the others seized the horses by their bits and

rendered poor Jean-Marie quite helpless. He thought then that all would

be up with the lot of them and was thinking of scrambling down from his

box in order to protect Mademoiselle with his body, and the pistols

which he had in the boot, when happily for every one concerned, he heard

in the distance--above the clatter which that abominable rabble was

making, the hurried tramp of horses. At once he jumped to the conclusion

that these could be none other than a company of soldiers sent by M. le

duc. This spurred him to a fresh effort, and gave him a new idea. To

Carmail the postilion who had a pistol in his holster he gave the

peremptory order to fire a shot into the air or into the crowd,

Jean-Marie cared not which. This Carmail did, and at once the horses,

already maddened by the crowd, plunged and reared wildly, shaking

themselves free. Jean-Marie, however, had them well in hand, and from

far away there came the cries of encouragement from the advancing

horsemen who were bearing down on them full tilt. The next moment there

was a general melee. Jean-Marie saw nothing save his horses' heads, but

the outriders declared that men were trampled down like flies all

around, while others vanished into the night.

What happened after that none of the men knew or cared. Jean-Marie

galloped his horses all the way to the castle and never drew rein until

the precincts were reached.

VI

Had M. de Kernogan had his way and a free hand to mete out retributive

justice in the proportion that he desired, there is no doubt that the

hangman of Nantes would have been kept exceedingly busy. As it was a

number of arrests were effected the following day--half the manhood of

the countryside was implicated in the aborted _Jacquerie_ and the city

prison was not large enough to hold it all.

A court of justice presided over by M. le duc, and composed of half a

dozen men who were directly or indirectly in his employ, pronounced

summary sentences on the rioters which were to have been carried out as

soon as the necessary arrangements for such wholesale executions

could be made. Nantes was turned into a city of wailing;

peasant-women--mothers, sisters, daughters, wives of the condemned,

trooped from their villages into the city, loudly calling on M. le duc

for mercy, besieging the improvised court-house, the prison gates, the

town residence of M. le duc, the palace of the bishop: they pushed their

way into the courtyards and the very corridors of those

buildings--flunkeys could not cope with them--they fought with fists and

elbows for the right to make a direct appeal to the liege-lord who had

power of life and death over their men.

The municipality of Nantes held aloof from this distressful state of

things, and the town councillors, the city functionaries and their

families shut themselves up in their houses in order to avoid being a

witness to the heartrending scenes which took place uninterruptedly

round the court-house and the prison. The mayor himself was powerless to

interfere, but it is averred that he sent a secret courier to Paris to

M. de Mirabeau, who was known to be a personal friend of his, with a

detailed account of the _Jacquerie_ and of the terrible measures of

reprisal contemplated by M. le duc de Kernogan, together with an earnest

request that pressure from the highest possible quarters be brought to

bear upon His Grace so that he should abate something of his vengeful

rigours.

Poor King Louis, who in these days was being terrorised by the National

Assembly and swept off his feet by the eloquence of M. de Mirabeau, was

only too ready to make concessions to the democratic spirit of the day.

He also desired his noblesse to be equally ready with such concessions.

He sent a personal letter to M. le duc, not only asking him, but

commanding him, to show grace and mercy to a lot of misguided peasant

lads whose loyalty and adherence--he urged--might be won by a gracious

and unexpected act of clemency.

The King's commands could not in the nature of things be disobeyed: the

same stroke of the pen which was about to send half a hundred young

countrymen to the gallows granted them M. le duc's gracious pardon and

their liberty: the only exception to this general amnesty being Pierre

Adet, the son of the miller. M. le duc's servants had deposed to seeing

him pull open the door of the coach and stand for some time half in and

half out of the carriage, obviously trying to terrorise Mademoiselle.

Mademoiselle refused either to corroborate or to deny this statement,

but she had arrived fainting at the gate of the chateau, and she had

been very ill ever since. She had sustained a serious shock to her

nerves, so the doctor hastily summoned from Paris had averred, and it

was supposed that she had lost all recollection of the terrible

incidents of that night.

But M. le duc was satisfied that it was Pierre Adet's presence inside

the coach which had brought about his daughter's mysterious illness and

that heartrending look of nameless horror which had dwelt in her eyes

ever since. Therefore with regard to that man M. le duc remained

implacable and as a concession to a father's outraged feelings both the

mayor of Nantes and the city functionaries accepted Adet's condemnation

without a murmur of dissent.

The sentence of death finally passed upon Pierre, the son of Jean Adet,

miller of Vertou, could not, however, be executed, for the simple reason

that Pierre had disappeared and that the most rigorous search instituted

in the neighbourhood and for miles around failed to bring him to

justice. One of the outriders who had been in attendance on Mademoiselle

on that fateful night declared that when Jean-Marie finally whipped up

his horses at the approach of the party of soldiers, Adet fell backwards

from the step of the carriage and was run over by the hind wheels and

instantly killed. But his body was never found among the score or so

which were left lying there in the mud of the road until the women and

old men came to seek their loved ones among the dead.

Pierre Adet had disappeared. But M. le duc's vengeance had need of a

prey. The outrage which he was quite convinced had been perpetrated

against his daughter must be punished by death--if not by the death of

the chief offender, then by that of the one who stood nearest to him.

Thus was Jean Adet the miller dragged from his home and cast into

prison. Was he not implicated himself in the riots? Camille the bailiff

had seen and heard him among the insurgents on the hillock that night.

At first it was stated that he would be held as hostage for the

reappearance of his son. But Pierre Adet had evidently fled the

countryside: he was obviously ignorant of the terrible fate which his

own folly had brought upon his father. Many thought that he had gone to

seek his fortune in Paris where his talents and erudition would ensure

him a good place in the present mad rush for equality amongst all men.

Certain it is that he did not return and that with merciless hate and

vengeful relentlessness M. le duc de Kernogan had Jean Adet hanged for a

supposed crime said to be committed by his son.

Jean Adet died protesting his innocence. But the outburst of indignation

and revolt aroused by this crying injustice was swamped by the torrent

of the revolution which, gathering force by these very acts of tyranny

and of injustice, soon swept innocent and guilty alike into a vast

whirlpool of blood and shame and tears.

BOOK ONE: BATH, 1793

CHAPTER I

THE MOOR

I

Silence. Loneliness. Desolation.

And the darkness of late afternoon in November, when the fog from the

Bristol Channel has laid its pall upon moor and valley and hill: the

last grey glimmer of a wintry sunset has faded in the west: earth and

sky are wrapped in the gloomy veils of oncoming night. Some little way

ahead a tiny light flickers feebly.

"Surely we cannot be far now."

"A little more patience, Mounzeer. Twenty minutes and we be there."

"Twenty minutes, mordieu. And I have ridden since the morning. And you

tell me it was not far."

"Not far, Mounzeer. But we be not 'orzemen either of us. We doan't

travel very fast."

"How can I ride fast on this heavy beast? And in this _satane_ mud. My

horse is up to his knees in it. And I am wet--ah! wet to my skin in this

_sacre_ fog of yours."

The other made no reply. Indeed he seemed little inclined for

conversation: his whole attention appeared to be riveted on the business

of keeping in his saddle, and holding his horse's head turned in the

direction in which he wished it to go: he was riding a yard or two ahead

of his companion, and it did not need any assurance on his part that he

was no horseman: he sat very loosely in his saddle, his broad shoulders

bent, his head thrust forward, his knees turned out, his hands clinging

alternately to the reins and to the pommel with that ludicrous

inconsequent gesture peculiar to those who are wholly unaccustomed to

horse exercise.

His attitude, in fact, as well as the promiscuous set of clothes which

he wore--a labourer's smock, a battered high hat, threadbare corduroys

and fisherman's boots--at once suggested the loafer, the do-nothing who

hangs round the yards of half-way houses and posting inns on the chance

of earning a few coppers by an easy job which does not entail too much

exertion on his part and which will not take him too far from his

favourite haunts. When he spoke--which was not often--the soft burr in

the pronunciation of the sibilants betrayed the Westcountryman.

His companion, on the other hand, was obviously a stranger: high of

stature, and broadly built, his wide shoulders and large hands and feet,

his square head set upon a short thick neck, all bespoke the physique of

a labouring man, whilst his town-made clothes--his heavy caped coat,

admirably tailored, his buckskin breeches and boots of fine

leather--suggested, if not absolutely the gentleman, at any rate one

belonging to the well-to-do classes. Though obviously not quite so

inexperienced in the saddle as the other man appeared to be, he did not

look very much at home in the saddle either: he held himself very rigid

and upright and squared his shoulders with a visible effort at seeming

at ease, like a townsman out for a constitutional on the fashionable

promenade of his own city, or a cavalry subaltern but lately emerged

from a riding school. He spoke English quite fluently, even

colloquially at times, but with a marked Gallic accent.

II

The road along which the two cavaliers were riding was unspeakably

lonely and desolate--an offshoot from the main Bath to Weston road. It

had been quite a good secondary road once. The accounts of the county

administration under date 1725 go to prove that it was completed in that

year at considerable expense and with stone brought over for the purpose

all the way from Draycott quarries, and for twenty years after that a

coach used to ply along it between Chelwood and Redhill as well as two

or three carriers, and of course there was all the traffic in connexion

with the Stanton markets and the Norton Fairs. But that was nigh on

fifty years ago now, and somehow--once the mail-coach was

discontinued--it had never seemed worth while to keep the road in decent

repair. It had gone from bad to worse since then, and travelling on it

these days either ahorse or afoot had become very unpleasant. It was

full of ruts and crevasses and knee-deep in mud, as the stranger had

very appositely remarked, and the stone parapet which bordered it on

either side, and which had once given it such an air of solidity and of

value, was broken down in very many places and threatened soon to

disappear altogether.

The country round was as lonely and desolate as the road. And that sense

of desolation seemed to pervade the very atmosphere right through the

darkness which had descended on upland and valley and hill. Though

nothing now could be seen through the gloom and the mist, the senses

were conscious that even in broad daylight there would be nothing to

see. Loneliness dwelt in the air as well as upon the moor. There were no

homesteads for miles around, no cattle grazing, no pastures, no hedges,

nothing--just arid wasteland with here and there a group of stunted

trees or an isolated yew, and tracts of rough, coarse grass not nearly

good enough for cattle to eat.

There are vast stretches of upland equally desolate in many parts of

Europe--notably in Northern Spain--but in England, where they are rare,

they seem to gain an additional air of loneliness through the very life

which pulsates in their vicinity. This bit of Somersetshire was one of

them in this year of grace 1793. Despite the proximity of Bath and its

fashionable life, its gaieties and vitality, distant only a little over

twenty miles, and of Bristol distant less than thirty, it had remained

wild and forlorn, almost savage in its grim isolation, primitive in the

grandeur of its solitude.

III

The road at the point now reached by the travellers begins to slope in a

gentle gradient down to the level of the Chew, a couple of miles further

on: it was midway down this slope that the only sign of living humanity

could be perceived in that tiny light which glimmered persistently. The

air itself under its mantle of fog had become very still, only the water

of some tiny moorland stream murmured feebly in its stony bed ere it

lost its entity in the bosom of the river far away.

"Five more minutes and we be at th' Bottom Inn," quoth the man who was

ahead in response to another impatient ejaculation from his companion.

"If we don't break our necks meanwhile in this confounded darkness,"

retorted the other, for his horse had just stumbled and the

inexperienced rider had been very nearly pitched over into the mud.

"I be as anxious to arrive as you are, Mounzeer," observed the

countryman laconically.

"I thought you knew the way," muttered the stranger.

"'Ave I not brought you safely through the darkness?" retorted the

other; "you was pretty well ztranded at Chelwood, Mounzeer, or I be much

mistaken. Who else would 'ave brought you out 'ere at this time o'

night, I'd like to know--and in this weather too? You wanted to get to

th' Bottom Inn and didn't know 'ow to zet about it: none o' the gaffers

up to Chelwood 'peared eager to 'elp you when I come along. Well, I've

brought you to th' Bottom Inn and.... Whoa! Whoa! my beauty! Whoa,

confound you! Whoa!"

And for the next moment or two the whole of his attention had perforce

to be concentrated on the business of sticking to his saddle whilst he

brought his fagged-out, ill-conditioned nag to a standstill.

The little glimmer of light had suddenly revealed itself in the shape of

a lanthorn hung inside the wooden porch of a small house which had

loomed out of the darkness and the fog. It stood at an angle of the road

where a narrow lane had its beginnings ere it plunged into the moor

beyond and was swallowed up by the all-enveloping gloom. The house was

small and ugly; square like a box and built of grey stone, its front

flush with the road, its rear flanked by several small outbuildings.

Above the porch hung a plain sign-board bearing the legend: "The Bottom

Inn" in white letters upon a black ground: to right and left of the

porch there was a window with closed shutters, and on the floor above

two more windows--also shuttered--completed the architectural features

of the Bottom Inn.

It was uncompromisingly ugly and uninviting, for beyond the faint

glimmer of the lanthorn only one or two narrow streaks of light

filtrated through the chinks of the shutters.

IV

The travellers, after some difference of opinion with their respective

horses, contrived to pull up and to dismount without any untoward

accident. The stranger looked about him, peering into the darkness. The

place indeed appeared dismal and inhospitable enough: its solitary

aspect suggested footpads and the abode of cut-throats. The silence of

the moor, the pall of mist and gloom that hung over upland and valley

sent a shiver through his spine.

"You are sure this is the place?" he queried.

"Can't ye zee the zign?" retorted the other gruffly.

"Can you hold the horses while I go in?"

"I doan't know as 'ow I can, Mounzeer. I've never 'eld two 'orzes all at

once. Suppose they was to start kickin' or thought o' runnin' away?"

"Running away, you fool!" muttered the stranger, whose temper had

evidently suffered grievously during the weary, cold journey from

Chelwood. "I'll break your _satane_ head if anything happens to the

beasts. How can I get back to Bath save the way I came? Do you think I

want to spend the night in this God-forsaken hole?"

Without waiting to hear any further protests from the lout, he turned

into the porch and with his riding whip gave three consecutive raps

against the door of the inn, followed by two more. The next moment there

was the sound of a rattling of bolts and chains, the door was cautiously

opened and a timid voice queried:

"Is it Mounzeer?"

"Pardieu! Who else?" growled the stranger. "Open the door, woman. I am

perished with cold."

With an unceremonious kick he pushed the door further open and strode

in. A woman was standing in the dimly lighted passage. As the stranger

walked in she bobbed him a respectful curtsey.

"It is all right, Mounzeer," she said; "the Captain's in the

coffee-room. He came over from Bristol early this afternoon."

"No one else here, I hope," he queried curtly.

"No one, zir. It ain't their hour not yet. You'll 'ave the 'ouse to

yourself till after midnight. After that there'll be a bustle, I reckon.

Two shiploads come into Watchet last night--brandy and cloth, Mounzeer,

so the Captain says, and worth a mint o' money. The pack 'orzes will be

through yere in the small hours."

"That's all right, then. Send me in a bite and a mug of hot ale."

"I'll see to it, Mounzeer."

"And stay--have you some sort of stabling where the man can put the two

horses up for an hour's rest?"

"Aye, aye, zir."

"Very well then, see to that too: and see that the horses get a feed and

a drink and give the man something to eat."

"Very good, Mounzeer. This way, zir. I'll see the man presently.

Straight down the passage, zir. The coffee-room is on the right. The

Captain's there, waiting for ye."

She closed the front door carefully, then followed the stranger to the

door of the coffee-room. Outside an anxious voice was heard muttering a

string of inconsequent and wholly superfluous "Whoa's!" Of a truth the

two wearied nags were only too anxious for a little rest.

CHAPTER II

THE BOTTOM INN

I

A man was sitting, huddled up in the ingle-nook of the small

coffee-room, sipping hot ale from a tankard which he had in his hand.

Anything less suggestive of a rough sea-faring life than his appearance

it would be difficult to conceive; and how he came by the appellation

"the Captain" must for ever remain a mystery. He was small and spare,

with thin delicate face and slender hands: though dressed in very rough

garments, he was obviously ill at ease in them; his narrow shoulders

scarcely appeared able to bear the weight of the coarsely made coat, and

his thin legs did not begin to fill the big fisherman's boots which

reached midway up his lean thighs. His hair was lank and plentifully

sprinkled with grey: he wore it tied at the nape of the neck with a silk

bow which certainly did not harmonise with the rest of his clothing. A

wide-brimmed felt hat something the shape of a sailor's, but with higher

crown--of the shape worn by the peasantry in Brittany--lay on the bench

beside him.

When the stranger entered he had greeted him curtly, speaking in French.

The room was inexpressibly stuffy, and reeked of the fumes of stale

tobacco, stale victuals and stale beer; but it was warm, and the

stranger, stiff to the marrow and wet to the skin, uttered an

exclamation of well-being as he turned to the hearth, wherein a bright

fire burned cheerily. He had put his hat down when first he entered and

had divested himself of his big coat: now he held one foot and then the

other to the blaze and tried to infuse new life into his numbed hands.

"The Captain" took scant notice of his comings and goings. He did not

attempt to help him off with his coat, nor did he make an effort to add

another log to the fire. He sat silent and practically motionless, save

when from time to time he took a sip out of his mug of ale. But whenever

the new-comer came within his immediate circle of vision he shot a

glance at the latter's elegant attire--the well-cut coat, the striped

waistcoat, the boots of fine leather--the glance was quick and

comprehensive and full of scorn, a flash that lasted only an instant and

was at once veiled again by the droop of the flaccid lids which hid the

pale, keen eyes.

"When the woman has brought me something to eat and drink," the stranger

said after a while, "we can talk. I have a good hour to spare, as those

miserable nags must have some rest."

He too spoke in French and with an air of authority, not to say

arrogance, which caused "the Captain's" glance of scorn to light up with

an added gleam of hate and almost of cruelty. But he made no remark and

continued to sip his ale in silence, and for the next half-hour the two

men took no more notice of one another, just as if they had never

travelled all those miles and come to this desolate spot for the sole

purpose of speaking with one another. During the course of that

half-hour the woman brought in a dish of mutton stew, a chunk of bread,

a piece of cheese and a jug of spiced ale, and placed them on the table:

all of these good things the stranger consumed with an obviously keen

appetite. When he had eaten and drunk his fill, he rose from the table,

drew a bench into the ingle-nook and sat down so that his profile only

was visible to his friend "the Captain."

"Now, citizen Chauvelin," he said with at attempt at ease and

familiarity not unmixed with condescension, "I am ready for your news."

II

Chauvelin had winced perceptibly both at the condescension and the

familiarity. It was such a very little while ago that men had trembled

at a look, a word from him: his silence had been wont to strike terror

in quaking hearts. It was such a very little while ago that he had been

president of the Committee of Public Safety, all powerful, the right

hand of citizen Robespierre, the master sleuth-hound who could track an

unfortunate "suspect" down to his most hidden lair, before whose keen,

pale eyes the innermost secrets of a soul stood revealed, who guessed at

treason ere it was wholly born, who scented treachery ere it was

formulated. A year ago he had with a word sent scores of men, women and

children to the guillotine--he had with a sign brought the whole

machinery of the ruthless Committee to work against innocent or guilty

alike on mere suspicion, or to gratify his own hatred against all those

whom he considered to be the enemies of that bloody revolution which he

had helped to make. Now his presence, his silence, had not even the

power to ruffle the self-assurance of an upstart.

But in the hard school both of success and of failure through which he

had passed during the last decade, there was one lesson which Armand

once Marquis de Chauvelin had learned to the last letter, and that was

the lesson of self-control. He had winced at the other's familiarity,

but neither by word nor gesture did he betray what he felt.

"I can tell you," he merely said quite curtly, "all I have to say in far

less time than it has taken you to eat and drink, citizen Adet...."

But suddenly, at sound of that name, the other had put a warning hand on

Chauvelin's arm, even as he cast a rapid, anxious look all round the

narrow room.

"Hush, man!" he murmured hurriedly, "you know quite well that that name

must never be pronounced here in England. I am Martin-Roget now," he

added, as he shook off his momentary fright with equal suddenness, and

once more resumed his tone of easy condescension, "and try not to forget

it."

Chauvelin without any haste quietly freed his arm from the other's

grasp. His pale face was quite expressionless, only the thin lips were

drawn tightly over the teeth now, and a curious hissing sound escaped

faintly from them as he said:

"I'll try and remember, citizen, that here in England you are an aristo,

the same as all these confounded English whom may the devil sweep into a

bottomless sea."

Martin-Roget gave a short, complacent laugh.

"Ah," he said lightly, "no wonder you hate them, citizen Chauvelin. You

too were an aristo here in England once--not so very long ago, I am

thinking--special envoy to His Majesty King George, what?--until failure

to bring one of these _satane_ Britishers to book made you ... er ...

well, made you what you are now."

He drew up his tall, broad figure as he spoke and squared his massive

shoulders as he looked down with a fatuous smile and no small measure of

scorn on the hunched-up little figure beside him. It had seemed to him

that something in the nature of a threat had crept into Chauvelin's

attitude, and he, still flushed with his own importance, his

immeasurable belief in himself, at once chose to measure his strength

against this man who was the personification of failure and

disgrace--this man whom so many people had feared for so long and whom

it might not be wise to defy even now.

"No offence meant, citizen Chauvelin," he added with an air of patronage

which once more made the other wince. "I had no wish to wound your

susceptibilities. I only desired to give you timely warning that what I

do here is no one's concern, and that I will brook interference and

criticism from no man."

And Chauvelin, who in the past had oft with a nod sent a man to the

guillotine, made no reply to this arrogant taunt. His small figure

seemed to shrink still further within itself: and anon he passed his

thin, claw-like hand over his face as if to obliterate from its surface

any expression which might war with the utter humility wherewith he now

spoke.

"Nor was there any offence meant on my part, citizen Martin-Roget," he

said suavely. "Do we not both labour for the same end? The glory of the

Republic and the destruction of her foes?"

Martin-Roget gave a sigh of satisfaction. The battle had been won: he

felt himself strong again--stronger than before through that very act of

deference paid to him by the once all-powerful Chauvelin. Now he was

quite prepared to be condescending and jovial once again:

"Of course, of course," he said pleasantly, as he once more bent his

tall figure to the fire. "We are both servants of the Republic, and I

may yet help you to retrieve your past failures, citizen, by giving you

an active part in the work I have in hand. And now," he added in a calm,

business-like manner, the manner of a master addressing a servant who

has been found at fault and is taken into favour again, "let me hear

your news."

"I have made all the arrangements about the ship," said Chauvelin

quietly.

"Ah! that is good news indeed. What is she?"

"She is a Dutch ship. Her master and crew are all Dutch...."

"That's a pity. A Danish master and crew would have been safer."

"I could not come across any Danish ship willing to take the risks,"

said Chauvelin dryly.

"Well! And what about this Dutch ship then?"

"She is called the _Hollandia_ and is habitually engaged in the sugar

trade: but her master does a lot of contraband--more that than fair

trading, I imagine: anyway, he is willing for the sum you originally

named to take every risk and incidentally to hold his tongue about the

whole business."

"For two thousand francs?"

"Yes."

"And he will run the _Hollandia_ into Le Croisic?"

"When you command."

"And there is suitable accommodation on board her for a lady and her

woman?"

"I don't know what you call suitable," said Chauvelin with a sarcastic

tone, which the other failed or was unwilling to note, "and I don't know

what you call a lady. The accommodation available on board the

_Hollandia_ will be sufficient for two men and two women."

"And her master's name?" queried Martin-Roget.

"Some outlandish Dutch name," replied Chauvelin. "It is spelt

K U Y P E R. The devil only knows how it is pronounced."

"Well! And does Captain K U Y P E R understand exactly what I want?"

"He says he does. The _Hollandia_ will put into Portishead on the last

day of this month. You and your guests can get aboard her any day after

that you choose. She will be there at your disposal, and can start

within an hour of your getting aboard. Her master will have all his

papers ready. He will have a cargo of West Indian sugar on

board--destination Amsterdam, consignee Mynheer van Smeer--everything

perfectly straight and square. French aristos, _emigres_ on board on

their way to join the army of the Princes. There will be no difficulty

in England."

"And none in Le Croisic. The man is running no risks."

"He thinks he is. France does not make Dutch ships and Dutch crews

exactly welcome just now, does she?"

"Certainly not. But in Le Croisic and with citizen Adet on board...."

"I thought that name was not to be mentioned here," retorted Chauvelin

dryly.

"You are right, citizen," whispered the other, "it escaped me and...."

Already he had jumped to his feet, his face suddenly pale, his whole

manner changed from easy, arrogant self-assurance to uncertainty and

obvious dread. He moved to the window, trying to subdue the sound of his

footsteps upon the uneven floor.

III

"Are you afraid of eavesdroppers, citizen Roget?" queried Chauvelin with

a shrug of his narrow shoulders.

"No. There is no one there. Only a lout from Chelwood who brought me

here. The people of the house are safe enough. They have plenty of

secrets of their own to keep."

He was obviously saying all this in order to reassure himself, for there

was no doubt that his fears were on the alert. With a febrile gesture he

unfastened the shutters, and pushed them open, peering out into the

night.

"Hallo!" he called.

But he received no answer.

"It has started to rain," he said more calmly. "I imagine that lout has

found shelter in an outhouse with the horses."

"Very likely," commented Chauvelin laconically.

"Then if you have nothing more to tell me," quoth Martin-Roget, "I may

as well think about getting back. Rain or no rain, I want to be in Bath

before midnight."

"Ball or supper-party at one of your duchesses?" queried the other with

a sneer. "I know them."

To this Martin-Roget vouchsafed no reply.

"How are things at Nantes?" he asked.

"Splendid! Carrier is like a wild beast let loose. The prisons are

over-full: the surplus of accused, condemned and suspect fills the

cellars and warehouses along the wharf. Priests and suchlike trash are

kept on disused galliots up stream. The guillotine is never idle, and

friend Carrier fearing that she might give out--get tired, what?--or

break down--has invented a wonderful way of getting rid of shoals of

undesirable people at one magnificent swoop. You have heard tell of it

no doubt."

"Yes. I have heard of it," remarked the other curtly.

"He began with a load of priests. Requisitioned an old barge. Ordered

Baudet the shipbuilder to construct half a dozen portholes in her

bottom. Baudet demurred: he could not understand what the order could

possibly mean. But Foucaud and Lamberty--Carrier's agents--you know

them--explained that the barge would be towed down the Loire and then

up one of the smaller navigable streams which it was feared the

royalists were preparing to use as a way for making a descent upon

Nantes, and that the idea was to sink the barge in midstream in order to

obstruct the passage of their army. Baudet, satisfied, put five of his

men to the task. Everything was ready on the 16th of last month. I know

the woman Pichot, who keeps a small tavern opposite La Secherie. She saw

the barge glide up the river toward the galliot where twenty-five

priests of the diocese of Nantes had been living for the past two months

in the company of rats and other vermin as noxious as themselves. Most

lovely moonlight there was that night. The Loire looked like a living

ribbon of silver. Foucaud and Lamberty directed operations, and Carrier

had given them full instructions. They tied the calotins up two and two

and transferred them from the galliot to the barge. It seems they were

quite pleased to go. Had enough of the rats, I presume. The only thing

they didn't like was being searched. Some had managed to secrete silver

ornaments about their person when they were arrested. Crucifixes and

such like. They didn't like to part with these, it seems. But Foucaud

and Lamberty relieved them of everything but the necessary clothing, and

they didn't want much of that, seeing whither they were going. Foucaud

made a good pile, so they say. Self-seeking, avaricious brute! He'll

learn the way to one of Carrier's barges too one day, I'll bet."

He rose and with quick footsteps moved to the table. There was some ale

left in the jug which the woman had brought for Martin-Roget a while

ago. Chauvelin poured the contents of it down his throat. He had talked

uninterruptedly, in short, jerky sentences, without the slightest

expression of horror at the atrocities which he recounted. His whole

appearance had become transfigured while he spoke. Gone was the urbane

manner which he had learnt at courts long ago, gone was the last

instinct of the gentleman sunk to proletarianism through stress of

circumstances, or financial straits or even political convictions. The

erstwhile Marquis de Chauvelin--envoy of the Republic at the Court of

St. James'--had become citizen Chauvelin in deed and in fact, a part of

that rabble which he had elected to serve, one of that vile crowd of

bloodthirsty revolutionaries who had sullied the pure robes of Liberty

and of Fraternity by spattering them with blood. Now he smacked his

lips, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and burying his hands in the

pockets of his breeches he stood with legs wide apart and a look of

savage satisfaction settled upon his pale face. Martin-Roget had made no

comment upon the narrative. He had resumed his seat by the fire and was

listening attentively. Now while the other drank and paused, he showed

no sign of impatience, but there was something in the look of the bent

shoulders, in the rigidity of the attitude, in the large, square hands

tightly clasped together which suggested the deepest interest and an

intentness that was almost painful.

"I was at the woman Pichot's tavern that night," resumed Chauvelin after

a while. "I saw the barge--a moving coffin, what?--gliding down stream

towed by the galliot and escorted by a small boat. The floating battery

at La Samaritaine challenged her as she passed, for Carrier had

prohibited all navigation up or down the Loire until further notice.

Foucaud, Lamberty, Fouquet and O'Sullivan the armourer were in the boat:

they rowed up to the pontoon and Vailly the chief gunner of the battery

challenged them once more. However, they had some sort of written

authorisation from Carrier, for they were allowed to pass. Vailly

remained on guard. He saw the barge glide further down stream. It seems

that the moon on that time was hidden by a cloud. But the night was not

dark and Vailly watched the barge till she was out of sight. She was

towed past Trentemoult and Chantenay into the wide reach of the river

just below Chevire where, as you know, the Loire is nearly two thousand

feet wide."

Once more he paused, looking down with grim amusement on the bent

shoulders of the other man.

"Well?"

Chauvelin laughed. The query sounded choked and hoarse, whether through

horror, excitement or mere impatient curiosity it were impossible to

say.

"Well!" he retorted with a careless shrug of the shoulders. "I was too

far up stream to see anything and Vailly saw nothing either. But he

heard. So did others who happened to be on the shore close by."

"What did they hear?"

"The hammering," replied Chauvelin curtly, "when the portholes were

knocked open to let in the flood of water. And the screams and yells of

five and twenty drowning priests."

"Not one of them escaped, I suppose?"

"Not one."

Once more Chauvelin laughed. He had a way of laughing--just like

that--in a peculiar mirthless, derisive manner, as if with joy at

another man's discomfiture, at another's material or moral downfall.

There is only one language in the world which has a word to express that

type of mirth; the word is _Schadenfreude_.

It was Chauvelin's turn to triumph now. He had distinctly perceived the

signs of an inward shudder which had gone right through Martin-Roget's

spine: he had also perceived through the man's bent shoulders, his

silence, his rigidity that his soul was filled with horror at the story

of that abominable crime which he--Chauvelin--had so blandly retailed

and that he was afraid to show the horror which he felt. And the man who

is afraid can never climb the ladder of success above the man who is

fearless.

IV

There was silence in the low raftered room for awhile: silence only

broken by the crackling and sizzling of damp logs in the hearth, and the

tap-tapping of a loosely fastened shutter which sounded weird and

ghoulish like the knocking of ghosts against the window-frame.

Martin-Roget bending still closer to the fire knew that Chauvelin was

watching him and that Chauvelin had triumphed, for--despite failure,

despite humiliation and disgrace--that man's heart and will had never

softened: he had remained as merciless, as fanatical, as before and

still looked upon every sign of pity and humanity for a victim of that

bloody revolution--which was his child, the thing of his creation, yet

worshipped by him, its creator--as a crime against patriotism and

against the Republic.

And Martin-Roget fought within himself lest something he might say or

do, a look, a gesture should give the other man an indication that the

horrible account of a hideous crime perpetrated against twenty-five

defenceless men had roused a feeling of unspeakable horror in his heart.

That was the punishment of these callous makers of a ruthless

revolution--that was their hell upon earth, that they were doomed to

hate and to fear one another; every man feeling that the other's hand

was up against him as it had been against law and order, against the

guilty and the innocent, the rebel and the defenceless; every man

knowing that the other was always there on the alert, ready to pounce

like a beast of prey upon any victim--friend, comrade, brother--who came

within reach of his hand.

Like many men stronger than himself, Pierre Adet--or Martin-Roget as he

now called himself--had been drawn into the vortex of bloodshed and of

tyranny out of which now he no longer had the power to extricate

himself. Nor had he any wish to extricate himself. He had too many past

wrongs to avenge, too much injustice on the part of Fate and

Circumstance to make good, to wish to draw back now that a newly-found

power had been placed in the hands of men such as he through the revolt

of an entire people. The sickening sense of horror which a moment ago

had caused him to shudder and to turn away in loathing from Chauvelin

was only like the feeble flicker of a light before it wholly dies

down--the light of something purer, early lessons of childhood, former

ideals, earlier aspirations, now smothered beneath the passions of

revenge and of hate.

And he would not give Chauvelin the satisfaction of seeing him wince. He

was himself ashamed of his own weakness. He had deliberately thrown in

his lot with these men and he was determined not to fall a victim to

their denunciations and to their jealousies. So now he made a great

effort to pull himself together, to bring back before his mind those

memory-pictures of past tyranny and oppression which had effectually

killed all sense of pity in his heart, and it was in a tone of perfect

indifference which gave no loophole to Chauvelin's sneers that he asked

after awhile:

"And was citizen Carrier altogether pleased with the result of his

patriotic efforts?"

"Oh, quite!" replied the other. "He has no one's orders to take. He is

proconsul--virtual dictator in Nantes: and he has vowed that he will

purge the city from all save its most deserving citizens. The cargo of

priests was followed by one of malefactors, night-birds, cut-throats and

such like. That is where Carrier's patriotism shines out in all its

glory. It is not only priests and aristos, you see--other miscreants are

treated with equal fairness."

"Yes! I see he is quite impartial," remarked Martin-Roget coolly.

"Quite," retorted Chauvelin, as he once more sat down in the ingle-nook.

And, leaning his elbows upon his knees he looked straight and

deliberately into the other man's face, and added slowly: "You will have

no cause to complain of Carrier's want of patriotism when you hand over

your bag of birds to him."

This time Martin-Roget had obviously winced, and Chauvelin had the

satisfaction of seeing that his thrust had gone home: though

Martin-Roget's face was in shadow, there was something now in his whole

attitude, in the clasping and unclasping of his large, square hands

which indicated that the man was labouring under the stress of a violent

emotion. In spite of this he managed to say quite coolly: "What do you

mean exactly by that, citizen Chauvelin?"

"Oh!" replied the other, "you know well enough what I mean--I am no

fool, what?... or the Revolution would have no use for me. If after my

many failures she still commands my services and employs me to keep my

eyes and ears open, it is because she knows that she can count on me. I

do keep my eyes and ears open, citizen Adet or Martin-Roget, whatever

you like to call yourself, and also my mind--and I have a way of putting

two and two together to make four. There are few people in Nantes who do

not know that old Jean Adet, the miller, was hanged four years ago,

because his son Pierre had taken part in some kind of open revolt

against the tyranny of the ci-devant duc de Kernogan, and was not there

to take his punishment himself. I knew old Jean Adet.... I was on the

Place du Bouffay at Nantes when he was hanged...."

But already Martin-Roget had jumped to his feet with a muttered

blasphemy.

"Have done, man," he said roughly, "have done!" And he started pacing up

and down the narrow room like a caged panther, snarling and showing his

teeth, whilst his rough, toil-worn hands quivered with the desire to

clutch an unseen enemy by the throat and to squeeze the life out of him.

"Think you," he added hoarsely, "that I need reminding of that?"

"No. I do not think that, citizen," replied Chauvelin calmly, "I only

desired to warn you."

"Warn me? Of what?"

Nervous, agitated, restless, Martin-Roget had once more gone back to his

seat: his hands were trembling as he held them up mechanically to the

blaze and his face was the colour of lead. In contrast with his

restlessness Chauvelin appeared the more calm and bland.

"Why should you wish to warn me?" asked the other querulously, but with

an attempt at his former over-bearing manner. "What are my affairs to

you--what do you know about them?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing, citizen Martin-Roget," replied Chauvelin

pleasantly, "I was only indulging the fancy I spoke to you about just

now of putting two and two together in order to make four. The

chartering of a smuggler's craft--aristos on board her--her ostensible

destination Holland--her real objective Le Croisic.... Le Croisic is now

the port for Nantes and we don't bring aristos into Nantes these days

for the object of providing them with a feather-bed and a competence,

what?"

"And," retorted Martin-Roget quietly, "if your surmises are correct,

citizen Chauvelin, what then?"

"Oh, nothing!" replied the other indifferently. "Only ... take care,

citizen ... that is all."

"Take care of what?"

"Of the man who brought me, Chauvelin, to ruin and disgrace."

"Oh! I have heard of that legend before now," said Martin-Roget with a

contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "The man they call the Scarlet

Pimpernel you mean?"

"Why, yes!"

"What have I to do with him?"

"I don't know. But remember that I myself have twice been after that man

here in England; that twice he slipped through my fingers when I thought

I held him so tightly that he could not possibly escape and that twice

in consequence I was brought to humiliation and to shame. I am a marked

man now--the guillotine will soon claim me for her future use. Your

affairs, citizen, are no concern of mine, but I have marked that Scarlet

Pimpernel for mine own. I won't have any blunderings on your part give

him yet another triumph over us all."

Once more Martin-Roget swore one of his favourite oaths.

"By Satan and all his brood, man," he cried in a passion of fury, "have

done with this interference. Have done, I say. I have nothing to do, I

tell you, with your _satane_ Scarlet Pimpernel. My concern is with...."

"With the duc de Kernogan," broke in Chauvelin calmly, "and with his

daughter; I know that well enough. You want to be even with them over

the murder of your father. I know that too. All that is your affair.

But beware, I tell you. To begin with, the secrecy of your identity is

absolutely essential to the success of your plan. What?"

"Of course it is. But...."

"But nevertheless, your identity is known to the most astute, the

keenest enemy of the Republic."

"Impossible," asserted Martin-Roget hotly.

"The duc de Kernogan...."

"Bah! He had never the slightest suspicion of me. Think you his High and

Mightiness in those far-off days ever looked twice at a village lad so

that he would know him again four years later? I came into this country

as an _emigre_ stowed away in a smuggler's ship like a bundle of

contraband goods. I have papers to prove that my name is Martin-Roget

and that I am a banker from Brest. The worthy bishop of Brest--denounced

to the Committee of Public Safety for treason against the Republic--was

given his life and a safe conduct into Spain on the condition that he

gave me--Martin-Roget--letters of personal introduction to various

high-born _emigres_ in Holland, in Germany and in England. Armed with

these I am invulnerable. I have been presented to His Royal Highness the

Regent, and to the elite of English society in Bath. I am the friend of

M. le duc de Kernogan now and the accredited suitor for his daughter's

hand."

"His daughter!" broke in Chauvelin with a sneer, and his pale, keen eyes

had in them a spark of malicious mockery.

Martin-Roget made no immediate retort to the sneer. A curious hot flush

had spread over his forehead and his ears, leaving his cheeks wan and

livid.

"What about the daughter?" reiterated Chauvelin.

"Yvonne de Kernogan has never seen Pierre Adet the miller's son,"

replied the other curtly. "She is now the affianced wife of

Martin-Roget the millionaire banker of Brest. To-night I shall persuade

M. le duc to allow my marriage with his daughter to take place within

the week. I shall plead pressing business in Holland and my desire that

my wife shall accompany me thither. The duke will consent and Yvonne de

Kernogan will not be consulted. The day after my wedding I shall be on

board the _Hollandia_ with my wife and father-in-law, and together we

will be on our way to Nantes where Carrier will deal with them both."

"You are quite satisfied that this plan of yours is known to no one,

that no one at the present moment is aware of the fact that Pierre Adet,

the miller's son, and Martin-Roget, banker of Brest, are one and the

same?"

"Quite satisfied," replied Martin-Roget emphatically.

"Very well, then, let me tell you this, citizen," rejoined Chauvelin

slowly and deliberately, "that in spite of what you say I am as

convinced as that I am here, alive, that your real identity will be

known--if it is not known already--to a gentleman who is at this present

moment in Bath, and who is known to you, to me, to the whole of France

as the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Martin-Roget laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Impossible!" he retorted. "Pierre Adet no longer exists ... he never

existed ... much.... Anyhow, he ceased to be on that stormy day in

September, 1789. Unless your pet enemy is a wizard he cannot know."

"There is nothing that my pet enemy--as you call him--cannot ferret out

if he has a mind to. Beware of him, citizen Martin-Roget. Beware, I tell

you."

"How can I," laughed the other contemptuously, "if I don't know who he

is?"

"If you did," retorted Chauvelin, "it wouldn't help you ... much. But

beware of every man you don't know; beware of every stranger you meet;

trust no one; above all, follow no one. He is there where you least

expect him under a disguise you would scarcely dream of."

"Tell me who he is then--since you know him--so that I may duly beware

of him."

"No," rejoined Chauvelin with the same slow deliberation, "I will not

tell you who he is. Knowledge in this case would be a very dangerous

thing."

"Dangerous? To whom?"

"To yourself probably. To me and to the Republic most undoubtedly. No! I

will not tell you who the Scarlet Pimpernel is. But take my advice,

citizen Martin-Roget," he added emphatically, "go back to Paris or to

Nantes and strive there to serve your country rather than run your head

into a noose by meddling with things here in England, and running after

your own schemes of revenge."

"My own schemes of revenge!" exclaimed Martin-Roget with a hoarse cry

that was like a snarl.... It seemed as if he wanted to say something

more, but that the words choked him even before they reached his lips.

The hot flush died down from his forehead and his face was once more the

colour of lead. He took up a log from the corner of the hearth and threw

it with a savage, defiant gesture into the fire.

Somewhere in the house a clock struck nine.

V

Martin-Roget waited until the last echo of the gong had died away, then

he said very slowly and very quietly:

"Forgo my own schemes of revenge? Can you even remotely guess, citizen

Chauvelin, what it would mean to a man of my temperament and of my

calibre to give up that for which I have toiled and striven for the past

four years? Think of what I was on that day when a conglomeration of

adverse circumstances turned our proposed expedition against the chateau

de Kernogan into a disaster for our village lads, and a triumph for the

duc. I was knocked down and crushed all but to death by the wheels of

Mlle. de Kernogan's coach. I managed to crawl in the mud and the cold

and the rain, on my hands and knees, hurt, bleeding, half dead, as far

as the presbytery of Vertou where the _cure_ kept me hidden at risk of

his own life for two days until I was able to crawl farther away out of

sight. The _cure_ did not know, I did not know then of the devilish

revenge which the duc de Kernogan meant to wreak against my father. The

news reached me when it was all over and I had worked my way to Paris

with the few sous in my pocket which that good _cure_ had given me,

earning bed and bread as I went along. I was an ignorant lout when I

arrived in Paris. I had been one of the ci-devant Kernogan's

labourers--his chattel, what?--little better or somewhat worse off than

a slave. There I heard that my father had been foully murdered--hung for

a crime which I was supposed to have committed, for which I had not even

been tried. Then the change in me began. For four years I starved in a

garret, toiling like a galley-slave with my hands and muscles by day and

at my books by night. And what am I now? I have worked at books, at

philosophy, at science: I am a man of education. I can talk and discuss

with the best of those d----d aristos who flaunt their caprices and

their mincing manners in the face of the outraged democracy of two

continents. I speak English--almost like a native--and Danish and German

too. I can quote English poets and criticise M. de Voltaire. I am an

aristo, what? For this I have worked, citizen Chauvelin--day and

night--oh! those nights! how I have slaved to make myself what I now am!

And all for the one object--the sole object without which existence

would have been absolutely unendurable. That object guided me, helped me

to bear and to toil, it cheered and comforted me! To be even one day

with the duc de Kernogan and with his daughter! to be their master! to

hold them at my mercy!... to destroy or pardon as I choose!... to be the

arbiter of their fate!... I have worked for four years: now my goal is

in sight, and you talk glibly of forgoing my own schemes of revenge!

Believe me, citizen Chauvelin," he concluded, "it would be easier for me

to hold my right hand into those flames until it hath burned to a cinder

than to forgo the hope of that vengeance which has eaten into my soul.

It would hurt much less."

He had spoken thus at great length, but with extraordinary restraint.

Never once did he raise his voice or indulge in gesture. He spoke in

even, monotonous tones, like one who is reciting a lesson; and he sat

straight in front of the fire, his elbow on his knee, his chin resting

in his hand and his eyes fixed upon the flames.

Chauvelin had listened in perfect silence. The scorn, the resentful

anger, the ill-concealed envy of the fallen man for the successful

upstart had died out of his glance. Martin-Roget's story, the intensity

of feeling betrayed in that absolute, outward calm had caused a chord of

sympathy to vibrate in the other's atrophied heart. How well he

understood that vibrant passion of hate, that longing to exact an eye

for an eye, an outrage for an outrage! Was not his own life given over

now to just such a longing?--a mad aching desire to be even once with

that hated enemy, that maddening, mocking, elusive Scarlet Pimpernel who

had fooled and baffled him so often?

VI

Some few moments had gone by since Martin-Roget's harsh, monotonous

voice had ceased to echo through the low raftered room: silence had

fallen between the two men--there was indeed nothing more to say; the

one had unburthened his over-full heart and the other had understood.

They were of a truth made to understand one another, and the silence

between them betokened sympathy.

Around them all was still, the stillness of a mist-laden night; in the

house no one stirred: the shutter even had ceased to creak; only the

crackling of the wood fire broke that silence which soon became

oppressive.

Martin-Roget was the first to rouse himself from this trance-like state

wherein memory was holding such ruthless sway: he brought his hands

sharply down on his knees, turned to look for a moment on his companion,

gave a short laugh and finally rose, saying briskly the while:

"And now, citizen, I shall have to bid you adieu and make my way back to

Bath. The nags have had the rest they needed and I cannot spend the

night here."

He went to the door and opening it called a loud "Hallo, there!"

The same woman who had waited on him on his arrival came slowly down the

stairs in response.

"The man with the horses," commanded Martin-Roget peremptorily. "Tell

him I'll be ready in two minutes."

He returned to the room and proceeded to struggle into his heavy coat,

Chauvelin as before making no attempt to help him. He sat once more

huddled up in the ingle-nook hugging his elbows with his thin white

hands. There was a smile half scornful, but not wholly dissatisfied

around his bloodless lips. When Martin-Roget was ready to go he called

out quietly after him:

"The _Hollandia_ remember! At Portishead on the last day of the month.

Captain K U Y P E R."

"Quite right," replied Martin-Roget laconically. "I'm not like to

forget."

He then picked up his hat and riding whip and went out.

VII

Outside in the porch he found the woman bending over the recumbent

figure of his guide.

"He be azleep, Mounzeer," she said placidly, "fast azleep, I do

believe."

"Asleep?" cried Martin-Roget roughly, "we'll soon see about waking him

up."

He gave the man a violent kick with the toe of his boot. The man

groaned, stretched himself, turned over and rubbed his eyes. The light

of the swinging lanthorn showed him the wrathful face of his employer.

He struggled to his feet very quickly after that.

"Stir yourself, man," cried Martin-Roget savagely, as he gripped the

fellow by the shoulder and gave him a vigorous shaking. "Bring the

horses along now, and don't keep me waiting, or there'll be trouble."

"All right, Mounzeer, all right," muttered the man placidly, as he shook

himself free from the uncomfortable clutch on his shoulder and leisurely

made his way out of the porch.

"Haven't you got a boy or a man who can give that lout a hand with those

_sacre_ horses?" queried Martin-Roget impatiently. "He hardly knows a

horse's head from its tail."

"No, zir, I've no one to-night," replied the woman gently. "My man and

my son they be gone down to Watchet to 'elp with the cargo and the

pack-'orzes. They won't be 'ere neither till after midnight. But," she

added more cheerfully, "I can straighten a saddle if you want it."

"That's all right then--but...."

He paused suddenly, for a loud cry of "Hallo! Well! I'm ..." rang

through the night from the direction of the rear of the house. The cry

expressed both surprise and dismay.

"What the ---- is it?" called Martin-Roget loudly in response.

"The 'orzes!"

"What about them?"

To this there was no reply, and with a savage oath and calling to the

woman to show him the way Martin-Roget ran out in the direction whence

had come the cry of dismay. He fell straight into the arms of his guide,

who promptly set up another cry, more dismal, more expressive of

bewilderment than the first.

"They be gone," he shouted excitedly.

"Who have gone?" queried the Frenchman.

"The 'orzes!"

"The horses? What in ---- do you mean?"

"The 'orzes have gone, Mounzeer. There was no door to the ztables and

they be gone."

"You're a fool," growled Martin-Roget, who of a truth had not taken in

as yet the full significance of the man's jerky sentences. "Horses don't

walk out of the stables like that. They can't have done if you tied them

up properly."

"I didn't tie them up," protested the man. "I didn't know 'ow to tie the

beastly nags up, and there was no one to 'elp me. I didn't think they'd

walk out like that."

"Well! if they're gone you'll have to go and get them back somehow,

that's all," said Martin-Roget, whose temper by now was beyond his

control, and who was quite ready to give the lout a furious thrashing.

"Get them back, Mounzeer," wailed the man, "'ow can I? In the dark, too.

Besides, if I did come nose to nose wi' 'em I shouldn't know 'ow to get

'em. Would you, Mounzeer?" he added with bland impertinence.

"I shall know how to lay you out, you _satane_ idiot," growled

Martin-Roget, "if I have to spend the night in this hole."

He strode on in the darkness in the direction where a little glimmer of

light showed the entrance to a wide barn which obviously was used as a

rough stabling. He stumbled through a yard and over a miscellaneous lot

of rubbish. It was hardly possible to see one's hands before one's eyes

in the darkness and the fog. The woman followed him, offering

consolation in the shape of a seat in the coffee-room whereon to pass

the night, for indeed she had no bed to spare, and the man from Chelwood

brought up the rear--still ejaculating cries of astonishment rather than

distress.

"You are that careless, man!" the woman admonished him placidly, "and I

give you a lanthorn and all for to look after your 'orzes properly."

"But you didn't give me a 'and for to tie 'em up in their stalls, and

give 'em their feed. Drat 'em! I 'ate 'orzes and all to do with 'em."

"Didn't you give 'em the feed I give you for 'em then?"

"No, I didn't. Think you I'd go into one o' them narrow stalls and get

kicked for my pains."

"Then they was 'ungry, pore things," she concluded, "and went out after

the 'ay what's just outside. I don't know 'ow you'll ever get 'em back

in this fog."

There was indeed no doubt that the nags had made their way out of the

stables, in that irresponsible fashion peculiar to animals, and that

they had gone astray in the dark. There certainly was no sound in the

night to denote their presence anywhere near.

"We'll get 'em all right in the morning," remarked the woman with her

exasperating placidity.

"To-morrow morning!" exclaimed Martin-Roget in a passion of fury. "And

what the d----l am I going to do in the meanwhile?"

The woman reiterated her offers of a seat by the fire in the

coffee-room.

"The men won't mind ye, zir," she said, "heaps of 'em are Frenchies like

yourself, and I'll tell 'em you ain't a spying on 'em."

"It's no more than five mile to Chelwood," said the man blandly, "and

maybe you get a better shakedown there."

"A five-mile tramp," growled Martin-Roget, whose wrath seemed to have

spent itself before the hopelessness of his situation, "in this fog and

gloom, and knee-deep in mud.... There'll be a sovereign for you, woman,"

he added curtly, "if you can give me a clean bed for the night."

The woman hesitated for a second or two.

"Well! a zovereign is tempting, zir," she said at last. "You shall 'ave

my son's bed. I know 'e'd rather 'ave the zovereign if 'e was ever zo

tired. This way, zir," she added, as she once more turned toward the

house, "mind them 'urdles there."

"And where am I goin' to zleep?" called the man from Chelwood after the

two retreating figures.

"I'll look after the man for you, zir," said the woman; "for a matter of

a shillin' 'e can sleep in the coffee-room, and I'll give 'im 'is

breakfast too."

"Not one farthing will I pay for the idiot," retorted Martin-Roget

savagely. "Let him look after himself."

He had once more reached the porch. Without another word, and not

heeding the protests and curses of the unfortunate man whom he had left

standing shelterless in the middle of the yard, he pushed open the front

door of the house and once more found himself in the passage outside the

coffee-room.

But the woman had turned back a little before she followed her guest

into the house, and she called out to the man in the darkness:

"You may zleep in any of them outhouses and welcome, and zure there'll

be a bit o' porridge for ye in the mornin'!"

"Think ye I'll stop," came in a furious growl out of the gloom, "and

conduct that d----d frogeater back to Chelwood? No fear. Five miles

ain't nothin' to me, and 'e can keep the miserable shillin' 'e'd 'ave

give me for my pains. Let 'im get 'is 'orzes back 'izelf and get to

Chelwood as best 'e can. I'm off, and you can tell 'im zo from me. It'll

make 'im sleep all the better, I reckon."

The woman was obviously not of a disposition that would ever argue a

matter of this sort out. She had done her best, she reckoned, both for

master and man, and if they chose to quarrel between themselves that was

their business and not hers.

So she quietly went into the house again; barred and bolted the door,

and finding the stranger still waiting for her in the passage she

conducted him to a tiny room on the floor above.

"My son's room, Mounzeer," she said; "I 'ope as 'ow ye'll be

comfortable."

"It will do all right," assented Martin-Roget. "Is 'the Captain'

sleeping in the house to-night?" he added as with an afterthought.

"Only in the coffee-room, Mounzeer. I couldn't give 'im a bed. 'The

Captain' will be leaving with the pack 'orzes a couple of hours before

dawn. Shall I tell 'im you be 'ere."

"No, no," he replied promptly. "Don't tell him anything. I don't want to

see him again: and he'll be gone before I'm awake, I reckon."

"That 'e will, zir, most like. Good-night, zir."

"Good-night. And--mind--that lout gets the two horses back again for my

use in the morning. I shall have to make my way to Chelwood as early as

may be."

"Aye, aye, zir," assented the woman placidly. It were no use, she

thought, to upset the Mounzeer's temper once more by telling him that

his guide had decamped. Time enough in the morning, when she would be

less busy.

"And my John can see 'im as far as Chelwood," she thought to herself as

she finally closed the door on the stranger and made her way slowly down

the creaking stairs.

CHAPTER III

THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS

I

The sigh of satisfaction was quite unmistakable.

It could be heard from end to end, from corner to corner of the

building. It sounded above the din of the orchestra who had just

attacked with vigour the opening bars of a schottische, above the

brouhaha of moving dancers and the frou-frou of skirts: it travelled

from the small octagon hall, through the central salon to the tea-room,

the ball-room and the card-room: it reverberated from the gallery in the

ball-room to the maids' gallery: it distracted the ladies from their

gossip and the gentlemen from their cards.

It was a universal, heartfelt "Ah!" of intense and pleasurable

satisfaction.

Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady had just arrived. It was close on

midnight, and the ball had positively languished. What was a ball

without the presence of Sir Percy? His Royal Highness too had been

expected earlier than this. But it was not thought that he would come at

all, despite his promise, if the spoilt pet of Bath society remained

unaccountably absent; and the Assembly Rooms had worn an air of woe even

in the face of the gaily dressed throng which filled every vast room in

its remotest angle.

But now Sir Percy Blakeney had arrived, just before the clocks had

struck midnight, and exactly one minute before His Royal Highness drove

up himself from the Royal Apartments. Lady Blakeney was looking more

radiant and beautiful than ever before, so everyone remarked, when a few

moments later she appeared in the crowded ball-room on the arm of His

Royal Highness and closely followed by my lord Anthony Dewhurst and by

Sir Percy himself, who had the young Duchess of Flintshire on his arm.

"What do you mean, you incorrigible rogue," her Grace was saying with

playful severity to her cavalier, "by coming so late to the ball?

Another two minutes and you would have arrived after His Royal Highness

himself: and how would you have justified such solecism, I would like to

know."

"By swearing that thoughts of your Grace had completely addled my poor

brain," he retorted gaily, "and that in the mental contemplation of such

charms I forgot time, place, social duties, everything."

"Even the homage due to truth," she laughed. "Cannot you for once in

your life be serious, Sir Percy?"

"Impossible, dear lady, whilst your dainty hand rests upon mine arm."

II

It was not often that His Royal Highness graced Bath with his presence,

and the occasion was made the excuse for quite exceptional gaiety and

brilliancy. The new fashions of this memorable year of 1793 had defied

the declaration of war and filtrated through from Paris: London

milliners had not been backward in taking the hint, and though most of

the more starchy dowagers obstinately adhered to the pre-war

fashions--the huge hooped skirts, stiff stomachers, pointed waists,

voluminous panniers and monumental head erections--the young and smart

matrons were everywhere to be seen in the new gracefully flowing skirts

innocent of steel constructions, the high waist line, the pouter

pigeon-like draperies over their pretty bosoms.

Her Grace of Flintshire looked ravishing with her curly fair hair

entirely free from powder, and Lady Betty Draitune's waist seemed to be

nestling under her arm-pits. Of course Lady Blakeney wore the very

latest thing in striped silks and gossamer-like muslin and lace, and it

was hard to enumerate all the pretty debutantes and young brides who

fluttered about the Assembly Rooms this night.

And gliding through that motley throng, bright-plumaged like a swarm of

butterflies, there were a few figures dressed in sober blacks and

greys--the _emigres_ over from France--men, women, young girls and

gilded youth from out that seething cauldron of revolutionary

France--who had shaken the dust of that rampant demagogism from off

their buckled shoes, taking away with them little else but their lives.

Mostly chary of speech, grave in their demeanour, bearing upon their wan

faces traces of that horror which had seized them when they saw all the

traditions of their past tottering around them, the proletariat whom

they had despised turning against them with all the fury of caged beasts

let loose, their kindred and friends massacred, their King and Queen

murdered. The shelter and security which hospitable England had extended

to them, had not altogether removed from their hearts the awful sense of

terror and of gloom.

Many of them had come to Bath because the more genial climate of the

West of England consoled them for the inclemencies of London's fogs.

Received with open arms and with that lavish hospitality which the

refugees and the oppressed had already learned to look for in England,

they had gradually allowed themselves to be drawn into the fashionable

life of the gay little city. The Comtesse de Tournai was here and her

daughter, Lady Ffoulkes, Sir Andrew's charming and happy bride, and M.

Paul Deroulede and his wife--beautiful Juliette Deroulede with the

strange, haunted look in her large eyes, as of one who has looked

closely on death; and M. le duc de Kernogan with his exquisite daughter,

whose pretty air of seriousness and of repose sat so quaintly upon her

young face. But every one remarked as soon as M. le duc entered the

rooms that M. Martin-Roget was not in attendance upon Mademoiselle,

which was quite against the order of things; also that M. le duc

appeared to keep a more sharp eye than usual upon his daughter in

consequence, and that he asked somewhat anxiously if milor Anthony

Dewhurst was in the room, and looked obviously relieved when the reply

was in the negative.

At which trifling incident every one who was in the know smiled and

whispered, for M. le duc made it no secret that he favoured his own

compatriot's suit for Mademoiselle Yvonne's hand rather than that of my

lord Tony--which--as old Euclid has it--is absurd.

III

But with the arrival of the royal party M. de Kernogan's troubles began.

To begin with, though M. Martin-Roget had not arrived, my lord Tony

undoubtedly had. He had come in, in the wake of Lady Blakeney, but very

soon he began wandering round the room obviously in search of some one.

Immediately there appeared to be quite a conspiracy among the young folk

in the ball-room to keep both Lord Tony's and Mlle. Yvonne's movements

hidden from the prying eyes of M. le duc: and anon His Royal Highness,

after a comprehensive survey of the ball-room and a few gracious words

to his more intimate circle, wandered away to the card-room, and as luck

would have it he claimed M. le duc de Kernogan for a partner at faro.

Now M. le duc was a courtier of the old regime: to have disobeyed the

royal summons would in his eyes have been nothing short of a crime. He

followed the royal party to the card-room, and on his way thither had

one gleam of comfort in that he saw Lady Blakeney sitting on a sofa in

the octagon hall engaged in conversation with his daughter, whilst Lord

Anthony Dewhurst was nowhere in sight.

However, the gleam of comfort was very brief, for less than a quarter of

an hour after he had sat down at His Highness' table, Lady Blakeney came

into the card-room and stood thereafter for some little while close

beside the Prince's chair. The next hour after that was one of special

martyrdom for the anxious father, for he knew that his daughter was in

all probability sitting out in a specially secluded corner in the

company of my lord Tony.

If only Martin-Roget were here!

IV

Martin-Roget with the eagle eyes and the airs of an accredited suitor

would surely have intervened when my lord Tony in the face of the whole

brilliant assembly in the ball-room, drew Mlle. de Kernogan into the

seclusion of the recess underneath the gallery.

My lord Tony was never very glib of tongue. That peculiar dignified

shyness which is one of the chief characteristics of well-bred

Englishmen caused him to be tongue-tied when he had most to say. It was

just with gesture and an appealing pressure of his hand upon her arm

that he persuaded Yvonne de Kernogan to sit down beside him on the sofa

in the remotest and darkest corner of the recess, and there she remained

beside him silent and grave for a moment or two, and stole timid glances

from time to time through the veil of her lashes at the

finely-chiselled, expressive face of her young English lover.

He was pining to put a question to her, and so great was his excitement

that his tongue refused him service, and she, knowing what was hovering

on his lips, would not help him out, but a humorous twinkle in her dark

eyes, and a faint smile round her lips lit up the habitual seriousness

of her young face.

"Mademoiselle ..." he managed to stammer at last. "Mademoiselle Yvonne

... you have seen Lady Blakeney?"

"Yes," she replied demurely, "I have seen Lady Blakeney."

"And ... and ... she told you?"

"Yes. Lady Blakeney told me many things."

"She told you that ... that.... In God's name, Mademoiselle Yvonne," he

added desperately, "do help me out--it is cruel to tease me! Can't you

see that I'm nearly crazy with anxiety?"

Then she looked up at him, her dark eyes glowing and brilliant, her face

shining with the light of a great tenderness.

"Nay, milor," she said earnestly, "I had no wish to tease you. But you

will own 'tis a grave and serious step which Lady Blakeney suggested

that I should take. I have had no time to think ... as yet."

"But there is no time for thinking, Mademoiselle Yvonne," he said

naively. "If you will consent.... Oh! you will consent, will you not?"

he pleaded.

She made no immediate reply, but gradually her hand which rested upon

the sofa stole nearer and then nearer to his; and with a quiver of

exquisite happiness his hand closed upon hers. The tips of his fingers

touched the smooth warm palm and poor Lord Tony had to close his eyes

for a moment as his sense of superlative ecstasy threatened to make him

faint. Slowly he lifted that soft white hand to his lips.

"Upon my word, Yvonne," he said with quiet fervour, "you will never have

cause to regret that you have trusted me."

"I know that well, milor," she replied demurely.

She settled down a shade or two closer to him still.

They were now like two birds in a cosy nest--secluded from the rest of

the assembly, who appeared to them like dream-figures flitting in some

other world that had nothing to do with their happiness. The strains of

the orchestra who had struck the measure of the first figure of a

contredanse sounded like fairy-music, distant, unreal in their ears.

Only their love was real, their joy in one another's company, their

hands clasped closely together!

"Tell me," she said after awhile, "how it all came about. It is all so

terribly sudden ... so exquisitely sudden. I was prepared of course ...

but not so soon ... and certainly not to-night. Tell me just how it

happened."

She spoke English quite fluently, with just a charming slight accent,

which he thought the most adorable thing he had ever heard.

"You see, dear heart," he replied, and there was a quiver of intense

feeling in his voice as he spoke, "there is a man who not only is the

friend whom I love best in all the world, but is also the one whom I

trust absolutely, more than myself. Two hours ago he sent for me and

told me that grave danger threatened you--threatened our love and our

happiness, and he begged me to urge you to consent to a secret marriage

... at once ... to-night."

"And you think this ... this friend knew?"

"I know," he replied earnestly, "that he knew, or he would not have

spoken to me as he did. He knows that my whole life is in your exquisite

hands--he knows that our happiness is somehow threatened by that man

Martin-Roget. How he obtained that information I could not guess ... he

had not the time or the inclination to tell me. I flew to make all

arrangements for our marriage to-night and prayed to God--as I have

never prayed in my life before--that you, dear heart, would deign to

consent."

"How could I refuse when Lady Blakeney advised? She is the kindest and

dearest friend I possess. She and your friend ought to know one another.

Will you not tell me who he is?"

"I will present him to you, dear heart, as soon as we are married," he

replied with awkward evasiveness. Then suddenly he exclaimed with boyish

enthusiasm: "I can't believe it! I can't believe it! It is the most

extraordinary thing in the world...."

"What is that, milor?" she asked.

"That you should have cared for me at all. For of course you must care,

or you wouldn't be sitting here with me now ... you would not have

consented ... would you?"

"You know that I do care, milor," she said in her grave quiet way. "How

could it be otherwise?"

"But I am so stupid and so slow," he said naively. "Why! look at me now.

My heart is simply bursting with all that I want to say to you, but I

just can't find the words, and I do nothing but talk rubbish and feel

how you must despise me."

Once more that humorous little smile played for a moment round Yvonne de

Kernogan's serious mouth. She didn't say anything just then, but her

delicate fingers gave his hand an expressive squeeze.

"You are not frightened?" he asked abruptly.

"Frightened? Of what?" she rejoined.

"At the step you are going to take?"

"Would I take it," she retorted gently, "if I had any misgivings?"

"Oh! if you had.... Do you know that even now ..." he continued clumsily

and haltingly, "now that I have realised just what it will mean to have

you ... and just what it would mean to me, God help me--if I were to

lose you ... well!... that even now I would rather go through that hell

than that you should feel the least bit doubtful or unhappy about it

all."

Again she smiled, gently, tenderly up into his eager, boyish face.

"The only unhappiness," she said gravely, "that could ever overtake me

in the future would be parting from you, milor."

"Oh! God bless you for that, my dear! God bless you for that! But for

pity's sake turn your dear eyes away from me or I vow I shall go crazy

with joy. Men do go crazy with joy sometimes, you know, and I feel that

in another moment I shall stand up and shout at the top of my voice to

all the people in the room that within the next few hours the loveliest

girl in all the world is going to be my wife."

"She certainly won't be that, if you do shout it at the top of your

voice, milor, for father would hear you and there would be an end to our

beautiful adventure."

"It will be a beautiful adventure, won't it?" he sighed with unconcealed

ecstasy.

"So beautiful, my dear lord," she replied with gentle earnestness, "so

perfect, in fact, that I am almost afraid something must happen

presently to upset it all."

"Nothing can happen," he assured her. "M. Martin-Roget is not here, and

His Royal Highness is even now monopolising M. le duc de Kernogan so

that he cannot get away."

"Your friend must be very clever to manipulate so many strings on our

behalf!"

"It is long past midnight now, sweetheart," he said with sudden

irrelevance.

"Yes, I know. I have been watching the time: and I have already thought

everything out for the best. I very often go home from balls and routs

in the company of Lady Ffoulkes and sleep in her house those nights.

Father is always quite satisfied, when I do that, and to-night he will

be doubly satisfied feeling that I shall be taken away from your

society. Lady Ffoulkes is in the secret, of course, so Lady Blakeney

told me, and she will be ready for me in a few minutes now: she'll take

me home with her and there I will change my dress and rest for awhile,

waiting for the happy hour. She will come to the church with me and then

... oh then! Oh! my dear milor!" she added suddenly with a deep sigh

whilst her whole face became irradiated with a light of intense

happiness, "as you say it is the most wonderful thing in all the

world--this--our beautiful adventure together."

"The parson will be ready at half-past six, dear heart, it was the

earliest hour that I could secure ... after that we go at once to your

church and the priest will tie up any loose threads which our English

parson failed to make tight. After those two ceremonies we shall be very

much married, shan't we?... and nothing can come between us, dear heart,

can it?" he queried with a look of intense anxiety on his young face.

"Nothing," she replied. Then she added with a short sigh: "Poor father!"

"Dear heart, he will only fret for a little while. I don't believe he

can really want you to marry that man Martin-Roget. It is just obstinacy

on his part. He can't have anything against me really ... save of course

that I am not clever and that I shall never do anything very big in the

world ... except to love you, Yvonne, with my whole heart and soul and

with every fibre and muscle in me.... Oh! I'll do that," he added with

boyish enthusiasm, "better than anyone else in all the world could do!

And your father will, I'll be bound, forgive me for stealing you, when

he sees that you are happy, and contented, and have everything you want

and ... and...."

As usual Lord Tony's eloquence was not equal to all that it should have

expressed. He blushed furiously and with a quaint, shy gesture, passed

his large, well-shaped hand over his smooth, brown hair. "I am not much,

I know," he continued with a winning air of self-deprecation, "and you

are far above me as the stars--you are so wonderful, so clever, so

accomplished and I am nothing at all ... but ... but I have plenty of

high-born connexions, and I have plenty of money and influential

friends ... and ... and Sir Percy Blakeney, who is the most

accomplished and finest gentleman in England, calls me his friend."

She smiled at his eagerness. She loved him for his clumsy little ways,

his halting speech, that big loving heart of his which was too full of

fine and noble feelings to find vent in mere words.

"Have you ever met a finer man in all the world?" he added

enthusiastically.

Yvonne de Kernogan smiled once more. Her recollections of Sir Percy

Blakeney showed her an elegant man of the world, whose mind seemed

chiefly occupied on the devising and the wearing of exquisite clothes,

in the uttering of lively witticisms for the entertainment of his royal

friend and the ladies of his entourage: it showed her a man of great

wealth and vast possessions who seemed willing to spend both in the mere

pursuit of pleasures. She liked Sir Percy Blakeney well enough, but she

could not understand clever and charming Marguerite Blakeney's adoration

for her inane and foppish husband, nor the whole-hearted admiration

openly lavished upon him by men like Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, my lord

Hastings, and others. She would gladly have seen her own dear milor

choose a more sober and intellectual friend. But then she loved him for

his marvellous power of whole-hearted friendship, for his loyalty to

those he cared for, for everything in fact that made up the sum total of

his winning personality, and she pinned her faith on that other

mysterious friend whose individuality vastly intrigued her.

"I am more interested in your anonymous friend," she said quaintly,

"than in Sir Percy Blakeney. But he too is kindness itself and Lady

Blakeney is an angel. I like to think that the happiest days of my

life--our honeymoon, my dear lord--will be spent in their house."

"Blakeney has lent me Combwich Hall for as long as we like to stay

there. We'll drive thither directly after the service, dear heart, and

then we'll send a courier to your father and ask for his blessing and

his forgiveness."

"Poor father!" sighed Yvonne again. But evidently compassion for the

father whom she had elected to deceive did not weigh over heavily in the

balance of her happiness. Her little hand once more stole like a timid

and confiding bird into the shelter of his firm grasp.

V

In the card-room at His Highness' table Sir Percy Blakeney was holding

the bank and seemingly luck was dead against him. Around the various

tables the ladies stood about, chattering and hindering the players.

Nothing appeared serious to-night, not even the capricious chances of

hazard.

His Royal Highness was in rare good humour, for he was winning

prodigiously.

Her Grace of Flintshire placed her perfumed and beringed hand upon Sir

Percy Blakeney's shoulder; she stood behind his chair, chattering

incessantly in a high flutey treble just like a canary. Blakeney vowed

that she was so ravishing that she had put Dame Fortune to flight.

"You have not yet told us, Sir Percy," she said roguishly, "how you came

to arrive so late at the ball."

"Alas, madam," he sighed dolefully, "'twas the fault of my cravat."

"Your cravat?"

"Aye indeed! You see I spent the whole of to-day in perfecting my new

method for tying a butterfly bow, so as to give the neck an appearance

of utmost elegance with a minimum of discomfort. Lady Blakeney will bear

me out when I say that I set my whole mind to my task. Was I not busy

all day m'dear?" he added, making a formal appeal to Marguerite, who

stood immediately behind His Highness' chair, and with her luminous

eyes, full of merriment and shining with happiness fixed upon her

husband.

"You certainly spent a considerable time in front of the looking-glass,"

she said gaily, "with two valets in attendance and my lord Tony an

interested spectator in the proceedings."

"There now!" rejoined Sir Percy triumphantly, "her ladyship's testimony

thoroughly bears me out. And now you shall see what Tony says on the

matter. Tony! Where's Tony!" he added as his lazy grey eyes sought the

brilliant crowd in the card-room. "Tony, where the devil are you?"

There was no reply, and anon Sir Percy's merry gaze encountered that of

M. le duc de Kernogan who, dressed in sober black, looked strangely

conspicuous in the midst of this throng of bright-coloured butterflies,

and whose grave eyes, as they rested on the gorgeous figure of the

English exquisite, held a world of contempt in their glance.

"Ah! M. le duc," continued Blakeney, returning that scornful look with

his habitual good-humoured one, "I had not noticed that mademoiselle

Yvonne was not with you, else I had not thought of inquiring so loudly

for my friend Tony."

"My lord Antoine is dancing with my daughter, Sir Percy," said the other

man gravely, in excellent if somewhat laboured English, "he had my

permission to ask her."

"And is a thrice happy man in consequence," retorted Blakeney lightly,

"though I fear me M. Martin-Roget's wrath will descend upon my poor

Tony's head with unexampled vigour in consequence."

"M. Martin-Roget is not here this evening," broke in the Duchess, "and

methought," she added in a discreet whisper, "that my lord Tony was all

the happier for his absence. The two young people have spent a

considerable time together under the shadow of the gallery in the

ball-room, and, if I mistake not, Lord Tony is making the most of his

time."

She talked very volubly and with a slight North-country brogue which no

doubt made it a little difficult for the stranger to catch her every

word. But evidently M. le duc had understood the drift of what she said,

for now he rejoined with some acerbity:

"Mlle. de Kernogan is too well educated, I hope, to allow the attentions

of any gentleman, against her father's will."

"Come, come, M. de Kernogan," here interposed His Royal Highness with

easy familiarity, "Lord Anthony Dewhurst is the son of my old friend the

Marquis of Atiltone: one of our most distinguished families in this

country, who have helped to make English history. He has moreover

inherited a large fortune from his mother, who was a Cruche of Crewkerne

and one of the richest heiresses in the land. He is a splendid fellow--a

fine sportsman, a loyal gentleman. His attentions to any young lady,

however high-born, can be but flattering--and I should say welcome to

those who have her future welfare at heart."

But in response to this gracious tirade, M. le duc de Kernogan bowed

gravely, and his stern features did not relax as he said coldly:

"Your Royal Highness is pleased to take an interest in the affairs of my

daughter. I am deeply grateful."

There was a second's awkward pause, for every one felt that despite his

obvious respect and deference M. le duc de Kernogan had endeavoured to

inflict a snub upon the royal personage, and one or two hot-headed young

fops in the immediate entourage even muttered the word: "Impertinence!"

inaudibly through their teeth. Only His Royal Highness appeared not to

notice anything unusual or disrespectful in M. le duc's attitude. It

seemed as if he was determined to remain good-humoured and pleasant. At

any rate he chose to ignore the remark which had offended the ears of

his entourage. Only those who stood opposite to His Highness, on the

other side of the card table, declared afterwards that the Prince had

frowned and that a haughty rejoinder undoubtedly hovered on his lips.

Be that as it may, he certainly did not show the slightest sign of

ill-humour: quite gaily and unconcernedly he scooped up his winnings

which Sir Percy Blakeney, who held the Bank, was at this moment pushing

towards him.

"Don't go yet, M. de Kernogan," he said as the Frenchman made a movement

to work his way out of the crowd, feeling no doubt that the atmosphere

round him had become somewhat frigid if not exactly inimical, "don't go

yet, I beg of you. _Pardi!_ Can't you see that you have been bringing me

luck? As a rule Blakeney, who can so well afford to lose, has the

devil's own good fortune, but to-night I have succeeded in getting some

of my own back from him. Do not, I entreat you, break the run of my luck

by going."

"Oh, Monseigneur," rejoined the old courtier suavely, "how can my poor

presence influence the gods, who of a surety always preside over your

Highness' fortunes?"

"Don't attempt to explain it, my dear sir," quoth the Prince gaily. "I

only know that if you go now, my luck may go with you and I shall blame

you for my losses."

"Oh! in that case, Monseigneur...."

"And with all that, Blakeney," continued His Highness, once more taking

up the cards and turning to his friend, "remember that we still await

your explanation as to your coming so late to the ball."

"An omission, your Royal Highness," rejoined Blakeney, "an absence of

mind brought about by your severity, and that of Her Grace. The trouble

was that all my calculations with regard to the exact adjustment of the

butterfly bow were upset when I realised that the set of the present day

waistcoat would not harmonise with it. Less than two hours before I was

due to appear at this ball my mind had to make a complete _volte-face_

in the matter of cravats. I became bewildered, lost, utterly confused. I

have only just recovered, and one word of criticism on my final efforts

would plunge me now into the depths of despair."

"Blakeney, you are absolutely incorrigible," retorted His Highness with

a laugh. "M. le duc," he added, once more turning to the grave Frenchman

with his wonted graciousness, "I pray you do not form your judgment on

the gilded youth of England by the example of my friend Blakeney. Some

of us can be serious when occasion demands, you know."

"Your Highness is pleased to jest," said M. de Kernogan stiffly. "What

greater occasion for seriousness can there be than the present one.

True, England has never suffered as France is suffering now, but she

has engaged in a conflict against the most powerful democracy the world

has ever known, she has thrown down the gauntlet to a set of human

beasts of prey who are as determined as they are ferocious. England will

not emerge victorious from this conflict, Monseigneur, if her sons do

not realise that war is not mere sport and that victory can only be

attained by the sacrifice of levity and of pleasure."

He had dropped into French in response to His Highness' remark, in order

to express his thoughts more accurately. The Prince--a little bored no

doubt--seemed disinclined to pursue the subject. Nevertheless, it seemed

as if once again he made a decided effort not to show ill-humour. He

even gave a knowing wink--a wink!--in the direction of his friend

Blakeney and of Her Grace as if to beg them to set the ball of

conversation rolling once more along a smoother--a less boring--path. He

was obviously quite determined not to release M. de Kernogan from

attendance near his royal person.

VI

As usual Sir Percy threw himself in the breach, filling the sudden pause

with his infectious laugh:

"La!" he said gaily, "how beautifully M. le duc does talk. Ffoulkes," he

added, addressing Sir Andrew, who was standing close by, "I'll wager you

ten pounds to a pinch of snuff that you couldn't deliver yourself of

such splendid sentiments, even in your own native lingo."

"I won't take you, Blakeney," retorted Sir Andrew with a laugh. "I'm no

good at peroration."

"You should hear our distinguished guest M. Martin-Roget on the same

subject," continued Sir Percy with mock gravity. "By Gad! can't he talk?

I feel a d----d worm when he talks about our national levity, our insane

worship of sport, our ... our ... M. le duc," he added with becoming

seriousness and in atrocious French, "I appeal to you. Does not M.

Martin-Roget talk beautifully?"

"M. Martin-Roget," replied the duc gravely, "is a man of marvellous

eloquence, fired by overwhelming patriotism. He is a man who must

command respect wherever he goes."

"You have known him long, M. le duc?" queried His Royal Highness

graciously.

"Indeed not very long, Monseigneur. He came over as an _emigre_ from

Brest some three months ago, hidden in a smuggler's ship. He had been

denounced as an aristocrat who was furthering the cause of the royalists

in Brittany by helping them plentifully with money, but he succeeded in

escaping, not only with his life, but also with the bulk of his

fortune."

"Ah! M. Martin-Roget is rich?"

"He is sole owner of a rich banking business in Brest, Monseigneur,

which has an important branch in America and correspondents all over

Europe. Monseigneur the Bishop of Brest recommended him specially to my

notice in a very warm letter of introduction, wherein he speaks of M.

Martin-Roget as a gentleman of the highest patriotism and integrity.

Were I not quite satisfied as to M. Martin-Roget's antecedents and

present connexions I would not have ventured to present him to your

Highness."

"Nor would you have accepted him as a suitor for your daughter, M. le

duc, _c'est entendu_!" concluded His Highness urbanely. "M.

Martin-Roget's wealth will no doubt cover his lack of birth."

"There are plenty of high-born gentlemen devoted to the royalist cause,

Monseigneur," rejoined the duc in his grave, formal manner. "But the

most just and purest of causes must at times be helped with money. The

Vendeens in Brittany, the Princes at Coblentz are all sorely in need of

funds...."

"And M. Martin-Roget son-in-law of M. le duc de Kernogan is more likely

to feed those funds than M. Martin-Roget the plain business man who has

no aristocratic connexions," concluded His Royal Highness dryly. "But

even so, M. le duc," he added more gravely, "surely you cannot be so

absolutely certain as you would wish that M. Martin-Roget's antecedents

are just as he has told you. Monseigneur the Bishop of Brest may have

acted in perfect good faith...."

"Monseigneur the Bishop of Brest, your Highness, is a man who has our

cause, the cause of our King and of our Faith, as much at heart as I

have myself. He would know that on his recommendation I would trust any

man absolutely. He was not like to make careless use of such knowledge."

"And you are quite satisfied that the worthy Bishop did not act under

some dire pressure ...?"

"Quite satisfied, Monseigneur," replied the duc firmly. "What pressure

could there be that would influence a prelate of such high integrity as

Monseigneur the Bishop of Brest?"

VII

There was silence for a moment or two, during which the heavy bracket

clock over the door struck the first hour after midnight. His Royal

Highness looked round at Lady Blakeney, and she gave him a smile and an

almost imperceptible nod. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had in the meanwhile

quietly slipped away.

"I understand," said His Royal Highness quite gravely, turning back to

M. le duc, "and I must crave your pardon, sir, for what must have seemed

to you an indiscretion. You have given me a very clear expose of the

situation. I confess that until to-night it had seemed to me--and to all

your friends, Monsieur, a trifle obscure. In fact, it had been my

intention to intercede with you in favour of my young friend Lord

Anthony Dewhurst, who of a truth is deeply enamoured of your daughter."

"Though your Highness' wishes are tantamount to a command, yet would I

humbly assert that my wishes with regard to my daughter are based upon

my loyalty and my duty to my Sovereign King Louis XVII, whom may God

guard and protect, and that therefore it is beyond my power now to

modify them."

"May God trounce you for an obstinate fool," murmured His Highness in

English, and turning his head away so that the other should not hear

him. But aloud and with studied graciousness he said:

"M. le duc, will you not take a hand at hazard? My luck is turning, and

I have faith in yours. We must fleece Blakeney to-night. He has had

Satan's own luck these past few weeks. Such good fortune becomes

positively revolting."

There was no more talk of Mlle. de Kernogan after that. Indeed her

father felt that her future had already been discussed far too freely by

all these well-wishers who of a truth were not a little indiscreet. He

thought that the manners and customs of good society were very peculiar

here in this fog-ridden England. What business was it of all these

high-born ladies and gentlemen--of His Royal Highness himself for that

matter--what plans he had made for Yvonne's future? Martin-Roget was

_bourgeois_ by birth, but he was vastly rich and had promised to pour a

couple of millions into the coffers of the royalist army if Mlle. de

Kernogan became his wife. A couple of millions with more to follow, no

doubt, and a loyal adherence to the royalist cause was worth these days

all the blue blood that flowed in my lord Anthony Dewhurst's veins.

So at any rate thought M. le duc this night, while His Royal Highness

kept him at cards until the late hours of the morning.

CHAPTER IV

THE FATHER

I

It was close on ten o'clock now in the morning on the following day, and

M. le duc de Kernogan was at breakfast in his lodgings in Laura Place,

when a courier was announced who was the bearer of a letter for M. le

duc.

He thought the man must have been sent by Martin-Roget, who mayhap was

sick, seeing that he had not been present at the Assembly Rooms last

night, and the duc took the letter and opened it without misgivings. He

read the address on the top of the letter: "Combwich Hall"--a place

unknown to him, and the first words of the letter: "Dear father!" And

even then he had no misgivings.

In fact he had to read the letter through three times before the full

meaning of its contents had penetrated into his brain. Whilst he read,

he sat quite still, and even the hand which held the paper had not the

slightest tremor. When he had finished he spoke quite quietly to his

valet:

"Give the courier a glass of ale, Frederick," he said, "and tell him he

can go; there is no answer. And--stay," he added, "I want you to go

round at once to M. Martin-Roget's lodgings and ask him to come and

speak with me as early as possible."

The valet left the room, and M. le duc deliberately read through the

letter from end to end for the fourth time. There was no doubt, no

possible misapprehension. His daughter Yvonne de Kernogan had eloped

clandestinely with my lord Anthony Dewhurst and had been secretly

married to him in the small hours of the morning in the Protestant

church of St. James, and subsequently before a priest of her own

religion in the Priory Church of St. John the Evangelist.

She apprised her father of this fact in a few sentences which purported

to be dictated by profound affection and filial respect, but in which M.

de Kernogan failed to detect the slightest trace of contrition. Yvonne!

his Yvonne! the sole representative now of the old race--eloped like a

kitchen-wench! Yvonne! his daughter! his asset for the future! his

thing! his fortune! that which he meant with perfect egoism to sacrifice

on the altar of his own beliefs and his own loyalty to the kingship of

France! Yvonne had taken her future in her own hands! She knew that her

hand, her person, were the purchase price of so many millions to be

poured into the coffers of the royalist cause, and she had disposed of

both, in direct defiance of her father's will and of her duty to her

King and to his cause!

Yvonne de Kernogan was false to her traditions, false to her father!

false to her King and country! In the years to come when the chroniclers

of the time came to write the histories of the great families that had

rallied round their King in the hour of his deadly peril, the name of

Kernogan would be erased from those glorious pages. The Kernogans will

have failed in their duty, failed in their loyalty! Oh! the shame of it

all! The shame!!

The duc was far too proud a gentleman to allow his valet to see him

under the stress of violent emotion, but now that he was alone his thin,

hard face--with that air of gravity which he had transmitted to his

daughter--became distorted with the passion of unbridled fury; he tore

the letter up into a thousand little pieces and threw the fragments into

the fire. On the bureau beside him there stood a miniature of Yvonne de

Kernogan painted by Hall three years ago, and framed in a circlet of

brilliants. M. le duc's eyes casually fell upon it; he picked it up and

with a violent gesture of rage threw it on the floor and stamped upon it

with his heel, destroying in this paroxysm of silent fury a work of art

worth many hundred pounds.

His daughter had deceived him. She had also upset all his plans whereby

the army of M. le Prince de Conde would have been enriched by a couple

of million francs. In addition to the shame upon her father, she had

also brought disgrace upon herself and her good name, for she was a

minor and this clandestine marriage, contracted without her father's

consent, was illegal in France, illegal everywhere: save perhaps in

England--of this M. de Kernogan was not quite sure, but he certainly

didn't care. And in this solemn moment he registered a vow that never as

long as he lived would he be reconciled to that English nincompoop who

had dared to filch his daughter from him, and never--as long as he

lived--would he by his consent render the marriage legal, and the

children born of that wedlock legitimate in the eyes of his country's

laws.

A calm akin to apathy had followed his first outbreak of fury. He sat

down in front of the fire, and buried his chin in his hand. Something of

course must be done to get his daughter back. If only Martin-Roget were

here, he would know better how to act. Would Martin-Roget stick to his

bargain and accept the girl for wife, now that her fame and honour had

been irretrievably tarnished? There was the question which the next

half-hour would decide. M. de Kernogan cast a feverish, anxious look on

the clock. Half an hour had gone by since Frederick went to seek

Martin-Roget, and the latter had not yet appeared.

Until he had seen Martin-Roget and spoken with Martin-Roget M. de

Kernogan could decide nothing. For one brief, mad moment, the project

had formed itself in his disordered brain to rush down to Combwich Hall

and provoke that impudent Englishman who had stolen his daughter: to

kill him or be killed by him; in either case Yvonne would then be parted

from him for ever. But even then, the thought of Martin-Roget brought

more sober reflection. Martin-Roget would see to it. Martin-Roget would

know what to do. After all, the outrage had hit the accredited lover

just as hard as the father.

But why in the name of ---- did Martin-Roget not come?

II

It was past midday when at last Martin-Roget knocked at the door of M.

le duc's lodgings in Laura Place. The older man had in the meanwhile

gone through every phase of overwhelming emotions. The outbreak of

unreasoning fury--when like a maddened beast that bites and tears he had

broken his daughter's miniature and trampled it under foot--had been

followed by a kind of dull apathy, when for close upon an hour he had

sat staring into the flames, trying to grapple with an awful reality

which seemed to elude him all the time. He could not believe that this

thing had really happened: that Yvonne, his well-bred dutiful daughter,

who had shown such marvellous courage and presence of mind when the

necessity of flight and of exile had first presented itself in the wake

of the awful massacres and wholesale executions of her own friends and

kindred, that she should have eloped--like some flirtatious wench--and

outraged her father in this monstrous fashion, by a clandestine marriage

with a man of alien race and of a heretical religion! M. de Kernogan

could not realise it. It passed the bounds of possibility. The very

flames in the hearth seemed to dance and to mock the bare suggestion of

such an atrocious transgression.

To this gloomy numbing of the senses had succeeded the inevitable morbid

restlessness: the pacing up and down the narrow room, the furtive

glances at the clock, the frequent orders to Frederick to go out and see

if M. Martin-Roget was not yet home. For Frederick had come back after

his first errand with the astounding news that M. Martin-Roget had left

his lodgings the previous day at about four o'clock, and had not been

seen or heard of since. In fact his landlady was very anxious about him

and was sorely tempted to see the town-crier on the subject.

Four times did Frederick have to go from Laura Place to the Bear Inn in

Union Street, where M. Martin-Roget lodged, and three times he returned

with the news that nothing had been heard of Mounzeer yet. The fourth

time--it was then close on midday--he came back running--thankful to

bring back the good tidings, since he was tired of that walk from Laura

Place to the Bear Inn. M. Martin-Roget had come home. He appeared very

tired and in rare ill-humour: but Frederick had delivered the message

from M. le duc, whereupon M. Martin-Roget had become most affable and

promised that he would come round immediately. In fact he was even then

treading hard on Frederick's heels.

III

"My daughter has gone! She left the ball clandestinely last night, and

was married to Lord Anthony Dewhurst in the small hours of the morning.

She is now at a place called Combwich Hall--with him!"

M. le duc de Kernogan literally threw these words in Martin-Roget's

face, the moment the latter had entered the room, and Frederick had

discreetly closed the door.

"What? What?" stammered the other vaguely. "I don't understand. What do

you mean?" he added, bewildered at the duc's violence, tired after his

night's adventure and the long ride in the early morning, irritable with

want of sleep and decent food. He stared, uncomprehending, at the duc,

who had once more started pacing up and down the room, like a caged

beast, with hands tightly clenched behind his back, his eyes glowering

both at the new-comer and at the imaginary presence of his most bitter

enemy--the man who had dared to come between him and his projects for

his daughter.

Martin-Roget passed his hand across his brow like a man who is not yet

fully awake.

"What do you mean?" he reiterated hazily.

"Just what I say," retorted the other roughly. "Yvonne has eloped with

that nincompoop Lord Anthony Dewhurst. They have gone through some sort

of marriage ceremony together. And she writes me a letter this morning

to tell me that she is quite happy and contented and spending her

honeymoon at a place called Combwich Hall. Honeymoon!" he repeated

savagely, as if to lash his fury up anew, "Tsha!"

Martin-Roget on the other hand was not the man to allow himself to fall

into a state of frenzy, which would necessarily interfere with calm

consideration.

He had taken the fact in now. Yvonne's elopement with his English rival,

the clandestine marriage, everything. But he was not going to allow his

inward rage to obscure his vision of the future. He did not spend the

next precious seconds--as men of his race are wont to do--in smashing

things around him, in raving and fuming and gesticulating. No. That was

not the temper M. Martin-Roget was in at this moment when Fate and a

girl's folly were ranging themselves against his plans. His friend,

citizen Chauvelin, would have envied him his calm in the face of this

disaster.

Whilst M. le duc still stormed and raved, Martin-Roget sat down quietly

in front of the fire, rested his chin in his hand and waited for a lull

in the other man's paroxysm ere he spoke.

"From your attitude, M. le duc," he then said quietly, hiding obvious

sarcasm behind a veil of studied deference, "from your attitude I gather

that your wishes with regard to Mlle. de Kernogan have undergone no

modification. You would still honour me by desiring that she should

become my wife?"

"I am not in the habit of changing my mind," said M. le duc gruffly. He

desired the marriage, he coveted Martin-Roget's millions for the

royalist cause, but he had no love for the man. All the pride of the

Kernogans, their long line of ancestry, rebelled against the thought of

a fair descendant of this glorious race being allied to a _roturier_--a

_bourgeois_--a tradesman, what? and the cause of King and country

counted few greater martyrdoms than that of the duc de Kernogan whenever

he met the banker Martin-Roget on an equal social footing.

"Then there is not much harm done," rejoined the latter coolly; "the

marriage is not a legal one. It need not even be dissolved--Mademoiselle

de Kernogan is still Mademoiselle de Kernogan and I her humble and

faithful adorer."

M. le duc paused in his restless walk.

"You would ..." he stammered, then checked himself, turning abruptly

away. He had some difficulty in hiding the scorn wherewith he regarded

the other's coolness. Bourgeois blood was not to be gainsaid. The

tradesman--or banker, whatever he was--who hankered after an alliance

with Mademoiselle de Kernogan, and was ready to lay down a couple of

millions for the privilege--was not to be deterred from his purpose by

any considerations of pride or of honour. M. le duc was satisfied and

re-assured, but he despised the man for his leniency for all that.

"The marriage is no marriage at all according to the laws of France,"

reiterated Martin-Roget calmly.

"No, it is not," assented the Duke roughly.

For a while there was silence: Martin-Roget seemed immersed in his own

thoughts and not to notice the febrile comings and goings of the other

man.

"What we have to do, M. le duc," he said after a while, "is to induce

Mlle. de Kernogan to return here immediately."

"How are you going to accomplish that?" sneered the Duke.

"Oh! I was not suggesting that I should appear in the matter at all,"

rejoined Martin-Roget with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Then how can I ...?"

"Surely ..." argued the younger man tentatively.

"You mean ...?"

Martin-Roget nodded. Despite these ambiguous half-spoken sentences the

two men had understood one another.

"We must get her back, of course," assented the Duke, who had suddenly

become as calm as the other man.

"There is no harm done," reiterated Martin-Roget with slow and earnest

emphasis.

Whereupon the Duke, completely pacified, drew a chair close to the

hearth and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his

fine, aristocratic hands to the blaze.

Frederick came in half an hour later to ask if M. le duc would have his

luncheon. He found the two gentlemen sitting quite close together over

the dying embers of a fire that had not been fed for close upon an hour:

and that prince of valets was glad to note that M. le duc's temper had

quite cooled down and that he was talking calmly and very affably to M.

Martin-Roget.

CHAPTER V

THE NEST

I

There are lovely days in England sometimes in November or December, days

when the departing year strives to make us forget that winter is nigh,

and autumn smiles, gentle and benignant, caressing with a still tender

kiss the last leaves of the scarlet oak which linger on the boughs, and

touching up with a vivid brush the evergreen verdure of bay trees, of

ilex and of yew. The sky is of that pale, translucent blue which

dwellers in the South never see, with the soft transparency of an

aquamarine as it fades into the misty horizon at midday. And at dusk the

thrushes sing: "Kiss me quick! kiss me quick! kiss me quick" in the

naked branches of old acacias and chestnuts, and the robins don their

crimson waistcoats and dart in and out among the coppice and through the

feathery arms of larch and pine. And the sun which tips the prickly

points of holly leaves with gold, joins in this merry make-believe that

winter is still a very, very long way off, and that mayhap he has lost

his way altogether, and is never coming to this balmy beautiful land

again.

Just such a day was the penultimate one of November, 1793, when Lady

Anthony Dewhurst sat at a desk in the wide bay window of the

drawing-room in Combwich Hall, trying to put into a letter to Lady

Blakeney all that her heart would have wished to express of love and

gratitude and happiness.

Three whole days had gone by since that exciting night, when before

break of day in the dimly-lighted old church, in the presence of two or

three faithful friends, she had plighted her troth to Lord Anthony: even

whilst other kind friends--including His Royal Highness--formed part of

the little conspiracy which kept her father occupied and, if necessary,

would have kept M. Martin-Roget out of the way. Since then her life had

been one continuous dream of perfect bliss. From the moment when after

the second religious ceremony in the Roman Catholic church she found

herself alone in the carriage with milor, and felt his arms--so strong

and yet so tender--closing round her and his lips pressed to hers in the

first masterful kiss of complete possession, until this hour when she

saw his tall, elegant figure hurrying across the garden toward the gate

and suddenly turning toward the window whence he knew that she was

watching him, every hour and every minute had been nothing but unalloyed

happiness.

Even there where she had looked for sorrow and difficulty her path had

been made smooth for her. Her father, who she had feared would prove

hard and irreconcilable, had been tender and forgiving to such an extent

that tears almost of shame would gather in her eyes whenever she thought

of him.

As soon as she arrived at Combwich Hall she had written a long and

deeply affectionate letter to her father, imploring his forgiveness for

the deception and unfilial conduct which on her part must so deeply have

grieved him. She pleaded for her right to happiness in words of

impassioned eloquence, she pleaded for her right to love and to be

loved, for her right to a home, which a husband's devotion would make a

paradise for her.

This letter she had sent by special courier to her father and the very

next day she had his reply. She had opened the letter with trembling

fingers, fearful lest her father's harshness should mar the perfect

serenity of her life. She was afraid of what he would say, for she knew

her father well: knew his faults as well as his qualities, his pride,

his obstinacy, his unswerving determination and his loyalty to the

King's cause--all of which must have been deeply outraged by his

daughter's high-handed action. But as she began to read, astonishment,

amazement at once filled her soul: she could hardly trust her

comprehension, hardly believe that what she read could indeed be

reality, and not just the continuance of the happy dream wherein she was

dwelling these days.

Her father--gently reproachful--had not one single harsh word to utter.

He would not, he said, at the close of his life, after so many bitter

disappointments, stand in the way of his daughter's happiness: "You

should have trusted me, my child," he wrote: and indeed Yvonne could not

believe her eyes. "I had no idea that your happiness was at stake in

this marriage, or I should never have pressed the claims of my own

wishes in the matter. I have only you in the world left, now that misery

and exile are to be my portion! Is it likely that I would allow any

personal desires to weigh against my love for you?"

Happy as she was Yvonne cried--cried bitterly with remorse and shame

when she read that letter. How could she have been so blind, so

senseless as to misjudge her father so? Her young husband found her in

tears, and had much ado to console her: he too read the letter and was

deeply touched by the kind reference to himself contained therein: "My

lord Anthony is a gallant gentleman," wrote M. le duc de Kernogan, "he

will make you happy, my child, and your old father will be more than

satisfied. All that grieves me is that you did not trust me sooner. A

clandestine marriage is not worthy of a daughter of the Kernogans."

"I did speak most earnestly to M. le duc," said Lord Tony reflectively,

"when I begged him to allow me to pay my addresses to you. But then," he

added cheerfully, "I am such a clumsy lout when I have to talk at any

length--and especially clumsy when I have to plead my own cause. I

suppose I put my case so badly before your father, m'dear, that he

thought me three parts an idiot and would not listen to me."

"I too begged and entreated him, dear," she said with a smile, "but he

was very determined then and vowed that I should marry M. Martin-Roget

despite my tears and protestations. Dear father! I suppose he didn't

realise that I was in earnest."

"He has certainly accepted the inevitable very gracefully," was my lord

Tony's final comment.

II

Then they read the letter through once more, sitting close together, he

with one arm round her shoulder, she nestling against his chest, her

hair brushing against his lips and with the letter in her hands which

she could scarcely read for the tears of joy which filled her eyes.

"I don't feel very well to-day," the letter concluded; "the dampness and

the cold have got into my bones: moreover you two young love birds will

not desire company just yet, but to-morrow if the weather is more genial

I will drive over to Combwich in the afternoon, and perhaps you will

give me supper and a bed for the night. Send me word by the courier who

will forthwith return to Bath if this will be agreeable to you both."

Could anything be more adorable, more delightful? It was just the last

drop that filled Yvonne's cup of happiness right up to the brim.

III

The next afternoon she sat at her desk in order to tell Lady Blakeney

all about it. She made out a copy of her father's letter and put that in

with her own, and begged dear Lady Blakeney to see Lady Ffoulkes

forthwith and tell her all that had happened. She herself was expecting

her father every minute and milor Tony had gone as far as the gate to

see if the barouche was in sight.

Half an hour later M. de Kernogan had arrived and his daughter lay in

his arms, happy, beyond the dreams of men. He looked rather tired and

wan and still complained that the cold had got into his bones: evidently

he was not very well and Yvonne after the excitement of the meeting felt

not a little anxious about him. As the evening wore on he became more

and more silent; he hardly would eat anything and soon after eight

o'clock he announced his desire to retire to bed.

"I am not ill," he said as he kissed his daughter and bade her a fond

"Good-night," "only a little wearied ... with emotion no doubt. I shall

be better after a night's rest."

He had been quite cordial with my lord Tony, though not effusive, which

was only natural--he was at all times a very reserved man, and--unlike

those of his race--never demonstrative in his manner: but with his

daughter he had been singularly tender, with a wistful affection which

almost suggested remorse, even though it was she who, on his arrival,

had knelt down before him and had begged for his blessing and his

forgiveness.

IV

But the following morning he appeared to be really ill: his cheeks

looked sunken, almost livid, his eyes dim and hollow. Nevertheless he

would not hear of staying on another day or so.

"No, no," he declared emphatically, "I shall be better in Bath. It is

more sheltered there, here the north winds would drive me to my bed very

quickly. I shall take a course of baths at once. They did me a great

deal of good before, you remember, Yvonne--in September, when I caught a

chill ... they soon put me right. That is all that ails me now.... I've

caught a chill."

He did his best to reassure his daughter, but she was far from

satisfied: more especially as he hardly would touch the cup of chocolate

which she had prepared for him with her own hands.

"I shall be quite myself again in Bath," he declared, "and in a day or

two when you can spare the time--or when milor can spare you--perhaps

you will drive over to see how the old father is getting on, eh?"

"Indeed," she said firmly, "I shall not allow you to go to Bath alone.

If you will go, I shall accompany you."

"Nay!" he protested, "that is foolishness, my child. The barouche will

take me back quite comfortably. It is less than two hours' drive and I

shall be quite safe and comfortable."

"You will be quite safe and comfortable in my company," she retorted

with a tender, anxious glance at his pale face and the nervous tremor of

his hands. "I have consulted with my dear husband and he has given his

consent that I should accompany you."

"But you can't leave milor like that, my child," he protested once more.

"He will be lonely and miserable without you."

"Yes. I think he will," she said wistfully. "But he will be all the

happier when you are well again, and I can return to Combwich

satisfied."

Whereupon M. le duc yielded. He kissed and thanked his daughter and

seemed even relieved at the prospect of her company. The barouche was

ordered for eleven o'clock, and a quarter of an hour before that time

Lord Tony had his young wife in his arms, bidding her a sad farewell.

"I hate your going from me, sweetheart," he said as he kissed her eyes,

her hair, her lips. "I cannot bear you out of my sight even for an hour

... let alone a couple of days."

"Yet I must go, dear heart," she retorted, looking up with that sweet,

grave smile of hers into his eager young face. "I could not let him

travel alone ... could I?"

"No, no," he assented somewhat dubiously, "but remember, dear heart,

that you are infinitely precious and that I shall scarce live for sheer

anxiety until I have you here, safe, once more in my arms."

"I'll send you a courier this evening," she rejoined, as she extricated

herself gently from his embrace, "and if I can come back to-morrow...."

"I'll ride over to Bath in any case in the morning so that I may escort

you back if you really can come."

"I will come if I am reassured about father. Oh, my dear lord," she

added with a wistful little sigh, "I knew yesterday morning that I was

too happy, and that something would happen to mar the perfect felicity

of these last few days."

"You are not seriously anxious about M. le duc's health, dear heart?"

"No, not seriously anxious. Farewell, milor. It is _au revoir_ ... a few

hours and we'll resume our dream."

V

There was nothing in all that to arouse my lord Tony's suspicions. All

day he was miserable and forlorn because Yvonne was not there--but he

was not suspicious.

Fate had a blow in store for him, from which he was destined never

wholly to recover, but she gave him no warning, no premonition. He spent

the day in making up arrears of correspondence, for he had a large

private fortune to administer--trust funds on behalf of brothers and

sisters who were minors--and he always did it conscientiously and to the

best of his ability. The last few days he had lived in a dream and there

was an accumulation of business to go through. In the evening he

expected the promised courier, who did not arrive: but his was not the

sort of disposition that would fret and fume because of a contretemps

which might be attributable to the weather--it had rained heavily since

afternoon--or to sundry trifling causes which he at Combwich, ten or a

dozen miles from Bath, could not estimate. He had no suspicions even

then. How could he have? How could he guess? Nevertheless when he

ultimately went to bed, it was with the firm resolve that he would in

any case go over to Bath in the morning and remain there until Yvonne

was able to come back with him.

Combwich without her was anyhow unendurable.

VI

He started for Bath at nine o'clock in the morning. It was still raining

hard. It had rained all night and the roads were very muddy. He started

out without a groom. A little after half-past ten, he drew rein outside

his house in Chandos Buildings, and having changed his clothes he

started to walk to Laura Place. The rain had momentarily left off, and a

pale wintry sun peeped out through rolling banks of grey clouds. He went

round by way of Saw Close and the Upper Borough Walls, as he wanted to

avoid the fashionable throng that crowded the neighbourhood of the Pump

Room and the Baths. His intention was to seek out the Blakeneys at their

residence in the Circus after he had seen Yvonne and obtained news of M.

le duc.

He had no suspicions. Why should he have?

The Abbey clock struck a quarter-past eleven when finally he knocked at

the house in Laura Place. Long afterwards he remembered how just at that

moment a dense grey mist descended into the valley. He had not noticed

it before, now he saw that it had enveloped this part of the city so

that he could not even see clearly across the Place.

A woman came to open the door. Lord Tony then thought this strange

considering how particular M. le duc always was about everything

pertaining to the management of his household: "The house of a poor

exile," he was wont to say, "but nevertheless that of a gentleman."

"Can I go straight up?" he asked the woman, who he thought was standing

ostentatiously in the hall as if to bar his way. "I desire to see M. le

duc."

"Ye can walk upstairs, zir," said the woman, speaking with a broad

Somersetshire accent, "but I doubt me if ye'll see 'is Grace the Duke.

'Es been gone these two days."

Tony had paid no heed to her at first; he had walked across the narrow

hall to the oak staircase, and was half-way up the first flight when her

last words struck upon his ear ... quite without meaning for the moment

... but nevertheless he paused, one foot on one tread, and the other two

treads below ... and he turned round to look at the woman, a swift frown

across his smooth forehead.

"Gone these two days," he repeated mechanically; "what do you mean?"

"Well! 'Is Grace left the day afore yesterday--Thursday it was.... 'Is

man went yesterday afternoon with luggage and sich ... 'e went by coach

'e did.... Leave off," she cried suddenly; "what are ye doin'? Ye're

'urtin' me."

For Lord Tony had rushed down the stairs again and was across the hall,

gripping the unoffending woman by the wrist and glaring into her

expressionless face until she screamed with fright.

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly as he released her wrist: all the

instincts of the courteous gentleman arrayed against his loss of

control. "I ... I forgot myself for the moment," he stammered; "would

you mind telling me again ... what ... what you said just now?"

The woman was prepared to put on the airs of outraged dignity, she even

glanced up at the malapert with scorn expressed in her small beady eyes.

But at sight of his face her anger and her fears both fell away from

her. Lord Tony was white to the lips, his cheeks were the colour of

dead ashes, his mouth trembled, his eyes alone glowed with ill-repressed

anxiety.

"'Is Grace," she said with slow emphasis, for of a truth she thought

that the young gentleman was either sick or daft, "'Is Grace left

this 'ouse the day afore yesterday in a hired barouche. 'Is

man--Frederick--went yesterday afternoon with the liggage. 'E caught the

Bristol coach at two o'clock. I was 'Is Grace's 'ousekeeper and I am to

look after the 'ouse and the zervants until I 'ear from 'Is Grace again.

Them's my orders. I know no more than I'm tellin' ye."

"But His Grace returned here yesterday forenoon," argued Lord Tony

calmly, mechanically, as one who would wish to convince an obstinate

child. "And my lady ... Mademoiselle Yvonne, you know ... was with him."

"Noa! Noa!" said the woman placidly. "'Is Grace 'asn't been near this

'ouse come Thursday afternoon, and 'is man left yesterday wi' th'

liggage. Why!" she added confidentially, "'e ain't gone far. It was all

zettled that zuddint I didn't know nothing about it myzelf till I zeed

Mr. Frederick start off wi' th' liggage. Not much liggage neither it

wasn't. Sure but 'Is Grace'll be 'ome zoon. 'E can't 'ave gone far. Not

wi' that bit o' liggage. Zure."

"But my lady ... Mademoiselle Yvonne...."

"Lor, zir, didn't ye know? Why 'twas all over th' town o' Tuesday as 'ow

Mademozell 'ad eloped with my lord Anthony Dew'urst, and...."

"Yes! yes! But you have seen my lady since?"

"Not clapped eyes on 'er, zir, since she went to the ball come Monday

evenin'. An' a picture she looked in 'er white gown...."

"And ... did His Grace leave no message ... for ... for anyone?... no

letter?"

"Ah, yes, now you come to mention it, zir. Mr. Frederick 'e give me a

letter yesterday. ''Is Grace,' sez 'e, 'left this yere letter on 'is

desk. I just found it,' sez 'e. 'If my lord Anthony Dew'urst calls,' sez

'e, 'give it to 'im.' I've got the letter zomewhere, zir. What may your

name be?"

"I am Lord Anthony Dewhurst," replied the young man mechanically.

"Your pardon, my lord, I'll go fetch th' letter."

VII

Lord Tony never moved while the woman shuffled across the passage and

down the back stairs. He was like a man who has received a knock-out

blow and has not yet had time to recover his scattered senses. At first

when the woman spoke, his mind had jumped to fears of some awful

accident ... runaway horses ... a broken barouche ... or a sudden

aggravation of the duc's ill-health. But soon he was forced to reject

what now would have seemed a consoling thought: had there been an

accident, he would have heard--a rumour would have reached him--Yvonne

would have sent a courier. He did not know yet what to think, his mind

was like a slate over which a clumsy hand had passed a wet

sponge--impressions, recollections, above all a hideous, nameless fear,

were all blurred and confused within his brain.

The woman came back carrying a letter which was crumpled and greasy from

a prolonged sojourn in the pocket of her apron. Lord Tony took the

letter and broke its heavy seal. The woman watched him, curiously,

pityingly now, for he was good to look on, and she scented the

significance of the tragedy which she had been the means of revealing

to him. But he had become quite unconscious of her presence, of

everything in fact save those few sentences, written in French, in a

cramped hand, and which seemed to dance a wild saraband before his eyes:

"MILOR,--

"You tried to steal my daughter from me, but I have taken her from

you now. By the time this reaches you we shall be on the high seas

on our way to Holland, thence to Coblentz, where Mademoiselle de

Kernogan will in accordance with my wishes be united in lawful

marriage to M. Martin-Roget whom I have chosen to be her husband.

She is not and never was your wife. As far as one may look into the

future, I can assure you that you will never in life see her

again."

And to this monstrous document of appalling callousness and cold-blooded

cruelty there was appended the signature of Andre Dieudonne Duc de

Kernogan.

But unlike the writer thereof Lord Anthony Dewhurst neither stormed nor

raged: he did not even tear the execrable letter into an hundred

fragments. His firm hand closed over it with one convulsive clutch, and

that was all. Then he slipped the crumpled paper into his pocket. Quite

deliberately he took out some money and gave a piece of silver to the

woman.

"I thank you very much," he said somewhat haltingly. "I quite understand

everything now."

The woman curtseyed and thanked him; tears were in her eyes, for it

seemed to her that never had she seen such grief depicted upon any human

face. She preceded him to the hall door and held it open for him, while

he passed out. After the brief gleam of sunshine it had started to rain

again, but he didn't seem to care. The woman suggested fetching a

hackney coach, but he refused quite politely, quite gently: he even

lifted his hat as he went out. Obviously he did not know what he was

doing. Then he went out into the rain and strode slowly across the

Place.

CHAPTER VI

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

I

Instinct kept him away from the more frequented streets--and instinct

after awhile drew him in the direction of his friend's house at the

comer of The Circus. Sir Percy Blakeney had not gone out fortunately:

the lacquey who opened the door to my lord Tony stared astonished and

almost paralysed for the moment at the extraordinary appearance of his

lordship. Rain dropped down from the brim of his hat on to his

shoulders: his boots were muddy to the knees, his clothes wringing wet.

His eyes were wild and hazy and there was a curious tremor round his

mouth.

The lacquey declared with a knowing wink afterwards that his lordship

must 'ave been drinkin'!

But at the moment his sense of duty urged him to show my lord--who was

his master's friend--into the library, whatever condition he was in. He

took his dripping coat and hat from him and marshalled him across the

large, square hall.

Sir Percy Blakeney was sitting at his desk, writing, when Lord Tony was

shown in. He looked up and at once rose and went to his friend.

"Sit down, Tony," he said quietly, "while I get you some brandy."

He forced the young man down gently into a chair in front of the fire

and threw another log into the blaze. Then from a cupboard he fetched a

flask of brandy and a glass, poured some out and held it to Tony's lips.

The latter drank--unresisting--like a child. Then as some warmth

penetrated into his bones, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his

knees and buried his face in his hands. Blakeney waited quietly, sitting

down opposite to him, until his friend should be able to speak.

"And after all that you told me on Monday night!" were the first words

which came from Tony's quivering lips, "and the letter you sent me over

on Tuesday! Oh! I was prepared to mistrust Martin-Roget. Why! I never

allowed her out of my sight!... But her father!... How could I guess?"

"Can you tell me exactly what happened?"

Lord Tony drew himself up, and staring vacantly into the fire told his

friend the events of the past four days. On Wednesday the courier with

M. de Kernogan's letter, breathing kindness and forgiveness. On Thursday

his arrival and seeming ill-health, on Friday his departure with Yvonne.

Tony spoke quite calmly. He had never been anything but calm since

first, in the house in Laura Place, he had received that awful blow.

"I ought to have known," he concluded dully, "I ought to have guessed.

Especially since you warned me."

"I warned you that Martin-Roget was not the man he pretended to be,"

said Blakeney gently, "I warned you against him. But I too failed to

suspect the duc de Kernogan. We are Britishers, you and I, my dear

Tony," he added with a quaint little laugh, "our minds will never be

quite equal to the tortuous ways of these Latin races. But we are not

going to waste time now talking about the past. We have got to find your

wife before those brutes have time to wreak their devilries against

her."

"On the high seas ... on the way to Holland ... thence to Coblentz ..."

murmured Tony, "I have not yet shown you the duc's letter to me."

He drew from his pocket the crumpled, damp piece of paper on which the

ink had run into patches and blotches, and which had become almost

undecipherable now. Sir Percy took it from him and read it through:

"The duc de Kernogan and Lady Anthony Dewhurst are not on their way to

Holland and to Coblentz," he said quietly as he handed the letter back

to Lord Tony.

"Not on their way to Holland?" queried the young man with a puzzled

frown. "What do you mean?"

Blakeney drew his chair closer to his friend: a marvellous and subtle

change had suddenly taken place in his individuality. Only a few moments

ago he was the polished, elegant man of the world, then the kindly and

understanding friend--self-contained, reserved, with a perfect manner

redolent of sympathy and dignity. Suddenly all that was changed. His

manner was still perfect and outwardly calm, his gestures scarce, his

speech deliberate, but the compelling power of the leader--which is the

birth-right of such men--glowed and sparkled now in his deep-set eyes:

the spirit of adventure and reckless daring was awake--insistent and

rampant--and subtle effluvia of enthusiasm and audacity emanated from

his entire personality.

Sir Percy Blakeney had sunk his individuality in that of the Scarlet

Pimpernel.

"I mean," he said, returning his friend's anxious look with one that was

inspiring in its unshakable confidence, "I mean that on Monday last, the

night before your wedding--when I urged you to obtain Yvonne de

Kernogan's consent to an immediate marriage--I had followed

Martin-Roget to a place called "The Bottom Inn" on Goblin Combe--a

place well known to every smuggler in the county."

"You, Percy!" exclaimed Tony in amazement.

"Yes, I," laughed the other lightly. "Why not? I had had my suspicions

of him for some time. As luck would have it he started off on the Monday

afternoon by hired coach to Chelwood. I followed. From Chelwood he

wanted to go on to Redhill: but the roads were axle deep in mud, and

evening was gathering in very fast. Nobody would take him. He wanted a

horse and a guide. I was on the spot--as disreputable a bar-loafer as

you ever saw in your life. I offered to take him. He had no choice. He

had to take me. No one else had offered. I took him to the Bottom Inn.

There he met our esteemed friend M. Chauvelin...."

"Chauvelin!" cried Tony, suddenly roused from the dull apathy of his

immeasurable grief, at sound of that name which recalled so many

exciting adventures, such mad, wild, hair-breadth escapes. "Chauvelin!

What in the world is he doing here in England?"

"Brewing mischief, of course," replied Blakeney dryly. "In disgrace,

discredited, a marked man--what you will--my friend M. Chauvelin has

still an infinite capacity for mischief. Through the interstices of a

badly fastened shutter I heard two blackguards devising infinite

devilry. That is why, Tony," he added, "I urged an immediate marriage as

the only real protection for Yvonne de Kernogan against those

blackguards."

"Would to God you had been more explicit!" exclaimed Tony with a bitter

sigh.

"Would to God I had," rejoined the other, "but there was so little time,

with licences and what not all to arrange for, and less than an hour to

do it in. And would you have suspected the Duc himself of such

execrable duplicity even if you had known, as I did then, that the

so-called Martin-Roget hath name Adet, and that he matures thoughts of

deadly revenge against the duc de Kernogan and his daughter?"

"Martin-Roget? the banker--the exiled royalist who...."

"He may be a banker now ... but he certainly is no royalist--he is the

son of a peasant who was unjustly put to death four years ago by the duc

de Kernogan."

"Ye gods!"

"He came over to England plentifully supplied with money--I could not

gather if the money is his or if it has been entrusted to him by the

revolutionary government for purposes of spying and corruption--but he

came to England in order to ingratiate himself with the duc de Kernogan

and his daughter, and then to lure them back to France, for what purpose

you may well imagine."

"Good God, man ... you can't mean ...?"

"He has chartered a smuggler's craft--or rather Chauvelin has done it

for him. Her name is the _Hollandia_, her master hath name Kuyper. She

was to be in Portishead harbour on the last day of November: all her

papers in order. Cargo of West India sugar, destination Amsterdam,

consignee some Mynheer over there. But Martin-Roget, or whatever his

name may be, and no doubt our friend Chauvelin too, were to be aboard

her, and also M. le duc de Kernogan and his daughter. And the

_Hollandia_ is to put into Le Croisic for Nantes, whose revolutionary

proconsul, that infamous Carrier, is of course Chauvelin's bosom

friend."

Sir Percy Blakeney finished speaking. Lord Tony had listened to him

quietly and in silence: now he rose and turned resolutely to his

friend. There was no longer any trace in him of that stunned apathy

which had been the primary result of the terrible blow. His young face

was still almost unrecognisable from the lines of grief and horror which

marred its habitual fresh, boyish look. He looked twenty years older

than he had done a few hours ago, but there was also in his whole

attitude now the virility of more mature manhood, its determination and

unswerving purpose.

"And what can I do now?" he asked simply, knowing that he could trust

his friend and leader with what he held dearest in all the world.

"Without you, Blakeney, I am of course impotent and lost. I haven't the

head to think. I haven't sufficient brains to pit against those cunning

devils. But if you will help me...."

Then he checked himself abruptly, and the look of hopeless despair once

more crept into his eyes.

"I am mad, Percy," he said with a self-deprecating shrug of the

shoulders, "gone crazy with grief, I suppose, or I shouldn't talk of

asking your help, of risking your life in my cause."

"Tony, if you talk that rubbish, I shall be forced to punch your head,"

retorted Blakeney with his light laugh. "Why man," he added gaily,

"can't you see that I am aching to have at my old friend Chauvelin

again?"

And indeed the zest of adventure, the zest to fight, never dormant, was

glowing with compelling vigour now in those lazy eyes of his which were

resting with such kindliness upon his stricken friend. "Go home, Tony!"

he added, "go, you rascal, and collect what things you want, while I

send for Hastings and Ffoulkes, and see that four good horses are ready

for us within the hour. To-night we sleep at Portishead, Tony. The

_Day-Dream_ is lying off there, ready to sail at any hour of the day or

night. The _Hollandia_ has twenty-four hour's start of us, alas! and we

cannot overtake her now: but we'll be in Nantes ere those devils can do

much mischief: and once in Nantes!... Why, Tony man! think of the

glorious escapes we've had together, you and I! Think of the gay, mad

rides across the north of France, with half-fainting women and swooning

children across our saddle-bows! Think of the day when we smuggled the

de Tournais out of Calais harbour, the day we snatched Juliette

Deroulede and her Paul out of the tumbril and tore across Paris with

that howling mob at our heels! Think! think, Tony! of all the happiest,

merriest moments of your life and they will seem dull and lifeless

beside what is in store for you, when with your dear wife's arms

clinging round your neck, we'll fly along the quays of Nantes on the

road to liberty! Ah, Tony lad! were it not for the anxiety which I know

is gnawing at your heart, I would count this one of the happiest hours

of my happy life!"

He was so full of enthusiasm, so full of vitality, that life itself

seemed to emanate from him and to communicate itself to the very

atmosphere around. Hope lit up my lord Tony's wan face: he believed in

his friend as mediaeval ascetics believed in the saints whom they adored.

Enthusiasm had crept into his veins, dull despair fell away from him

like a mantle.

"God bless you, Percy," he exclaimed as his firm and loyal hand grasped

that of the leader whom he revered.

"Nay!" retorted Blakeney with sudden gravity. "He hath done that

already. Pray for His help to-day, lad, as you have never prayed

before."

CHAPTER VII

MARGUERITE

I

Lord Tony had gone, and for the space of five minutes Sir Percy Blakeney

stood in front of the hearth staring into the fire. Something lay before

him, something had to be done now, which represented the heavy price

that had to be paid for those mad and happy adventures, for that

reckless daring, aye for that selfless supreme sacrifice which was as

the very breath of life to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

And in the dancing flames he could see Marguerite's blue eyes, her

ardent hair, her tender smile all pleading with him not to go. She had

so much to give him--so much happiness, such an infinity of love, and he

was all that she had in the world! It seemed to him as if he could feel

her arms around him even now, as if he could hear her voice whispering

appealingly: "Do not go! Am I nothing to you that thoughts of others

should triumph over my pleading? that the need of others should outweigh

mine own most pressing need? I want you, Percy! aye! even I! You have

done so much for others--it is my turn now."

But even as in a kind of trance those words seemed to reach his strained

senses, he knew that he must go, that he must tear himself away once

more from the clinging embrace of her dear arms and shut his eyes to the

tears which anon would fill her own. Destiny demanded that he should go.

He had chosen his path in life himself, at first only in a spirit of

wild recklessness, a mad tossing of his life into the scales of Fate.

But now that same destiny which he had chosen had become his master: he

no longer could draw back. What he had done once, twenty times, an

hundred times, that he must do again, all the while that the weak and

the defenceless called mutely to him from across the seas, all the while

that innocent women suffered and orphaned children cried.

And to-day it was his friend, his comrade, who had come to him in his

distress: the young wife whom he idolised was in the most dire peril

that could possibly threaten any woman: she was at the mercy of a man

who, driven by the passion of revenge, meant to show her no mercy, and

the devil alone knew these days to what lengths of infamy a man so

driven would go.

The minutes sped on. Blakeney's eyes grew hot and wearied from staring

into the fire. He closed them for a moment and then quietly turned to

go.

II

All those who knew Marguerite Blakeney these days marvelled if she was

ever unhappy. Lady Ffoulkes, who was her most trusted friend, vowed that

she was not. She had moments--days--sometimes weeks of intense anxiety,

which amounted to acute agony. Whenever she saw her husband start on one

of those expeditions to France wherein every minute, every hour, he

risked his life and more in order to snatch yet another threatened

victim from the awful clutches of those merciless Terrorists, she

endured soul-torture such as few women could have withstood who had not

her splendid courage and her boundless faith. But against such crushing

sorrow she had to set off the happiness of those reunions with the man

whom she loved so passionately--happiness which was so great, that it

overrode and conquered the very memory of past anxieties.

Marguerite Blakeney suffered terribly at times--at others she was

overwhelmingly happy--the measure of her life was made up of the bitter

dregs of sorrow and the sparkling wine of joy! No! she was not

altogether unhappy: and gradually that enthusiasm which irradiated from

the whole personality of the valiant Scarlet Pimpernel, which dominated

his every action, entered into Marguerite Blakeney's blood too. His

vitality was so compelling, those impulses which carried him headlong

into unknown dangers were so generous and were actuated by such pure

selflessness, that the noble-hearted woman whose very soul was wrapped

up in the idolised husband, allowed herself to ride by his side on the

buoyant waves of his enthusiasm and of his desires: she smothered every

expression of anxiety, she swallowed her tears, she learned to say the

word "Good-bye" and forgot the word "Stay!"

III

It was half an hour after midday when Percy knocked at the door of her

boudoir. She had just come in from a walk in the meadows round the town

and along the bank of the river: the rain had overtaken her and she had

come in very wet, but none the less exhilarated by the movement and the

keen, damp, salt-laden air which came straight over the hills from the

Channel. She had taken off her hat and her mantle and was laughing gaily

with her maid who was shaking the wet out of a feather. She looked round

at her husband when he entered, and with a quick gesture ordered the

maid out of the room.

She had learned to read every line on Percy's face, every expression of

his lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. She saw that he was dressed with more than

his usual fastidiousness, but in dark clothes and travelling mantle. She

knew, moreover, by that subtle instinct which had become a second nature

and which warned her whenever he meant to go.

Nor did he announce his departure to her in so many words. As soon as

the maid had gone, he took his beloved in his arms.

"They have stolen Tony's wife from him," he said with that light, quaint

laugh of his. "I told you that the man Martin-Roget had planned some

devilish mischief--well! he has succeeded so far, thanks to that

unspeakable fool the duc de Kernogan."

He told her briefly the history of the past few days.

"Tony did not take my warning seriously enough," he concluded with a

sigh; "he ought never to have allowed his wife out of his sight."

Marguerite had not interrupted him while he spoke. At first she just lay

in his arms, quiescent and listening, nerving herself by a supreme

effort not to utter one sigh of misery or one word of appeal. Then, as

her knees shook under her, she sank back into a chair by the hearth and

he knelt beside her with his arms clasped tightly round her shoulders,

his cheek pressed against hers. He had no need to tell her that duty and

friendship called, that the call of honour was once again--as it so

often has been in the world--louder than that of love.

She understood and she knew, and he, with that supersensitive instinct

of his, understood the heroic effort which she made.

"Your love, dear heart," he whispered, "will draw me back safely home as

it hath so often done before. You believe that, do you not?"

And she had the supreme courage to murmur: "Yes!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE ROAD TO PORTISHEAD

I

It was not until Bath had very obviously been left behind that Yvonne de

Kernogan--Lady Anthony Dewhurst--realised that she had been trapped.

During the first half-hour of the journey her father had lain back

against the cushions of the carriage with eyes closed, his face pale and

wan as if with great suffering. Yvonne, her mind a prey to the gravest

anxiety, sat beside him, holding his limp cold hand in hers. Once or

twice she ventured on a timid question as to his health and he

invariably murmured a feeble assurance that he felt well, only very

tired and disinclined to talk. Anon she suggested--diffidently, for she

did not mean to disturb him--that the driver did not appear to know his

way into Bath, he had turned into a side road which she felt sure was

not the right one. M. le duc then roused himself for a moment from his

lethargy. He leaned forward and gazed out of the window.

"The man is quite right, Yvonne," he said quietly, "he knows his way. He

brought me along this road yesterday. He gets into Bath by a slight

detour but it is pleasanter driving."

This reply satisfied her. She was a stranger in the land, and knew

little or nothing of the environs of Bath. True, last Monday morning

after the ceremony of her marriage she had driven out to Combwich, but

dawn was only just breaking then, and she had lain for the most

part--wearied and happy--in her young husband's arms. She had taken

scant note of roads and signposts.

A few minutes later the coach came to a halt and Yvonne, looking through

the window, saw a man who was muffled up to the chin and enveloped in a

huge travelling cape, mount swiftly up beside the driver.

"Who is that man?" she queried sharply.

"Some friend of the coachman's, no doubt," murmured her father in reply,

"to whom he is giving a lift as far as Bath."

The barouche had moved on again.

Yvonne could not have told you why, but at her father's last words she

had felt a sudden cold grip at her heart--the first since she started.

It was neither fear nor yet suspicion, but a chill seemed to go right

through her. She gazed anxiously through the window, and then looked at

her father with eyes that challenged and that doubted. But M. le duc

would not meet her gaze. He had once more closed his eyes and sat quite

still, pale and haggard, like a man who is suffering acutely.

II

"Father we are going back to Bath, are we not?"

The query came out trenchant and hard from her throat which now felt

hoarse and choked. Her whole being was suddenly pervaded by a vast and

nameless fear. Time had gone on, and there was no sign in the distance

of the great city. M. de Kernogan made no reply, but he opened his eyes

and a curious glance shot from them at the terror-stricken face of his

daughter.

Then she knew--knew that she had been tricked and trapped--that her

father had played a hideous and complicated role of hypocrisy and

duplicity in order to take her away from the husband whom she idolised.

Fear and her love for the man of her choice gave her initiative and

strength. Before M. de Kernogan could realise what she was doing, before

he could make a movement to stop her, she had seized the handle of the

carriage door, wrenched the door open and jumped out into the road. She

fell on her face in the mud, but the next moment she picked herself up

again and started to run--down the road which the carriage had just

traversed, on and on as fast as she could go. She ran on blindly,

unreasoningly, impelled by a purely physical instinct to escape, not

thinking how childish, how futile such an attempt was bound to be.

Already after the first few minutes of this swift career over the muddy

road, she heard quick, heavy footsteps behind her. Her father could not

run like that--the coachman could not have thus left his horses--but

still she could hear those footsteps at a run--a quicker run than

hers--and they were gaining on her--every minute, every second. The

next, she felt two powerful arms suddenly seizing her by the shoulders.

She stumbled and would once more have fallen, but for those same strong

arms which held her close.

"Let me go! Let me go!" she cried, panting.

But she was held and could no longer move. She looked up into the face

of Martin-Roget, who without any hesitation or compunction lifted her up

as if she had been a bale of light goods and carried her back toward the

coach. She had forgotten the man who had been picked up on the road

awhile ago, and had been sitting beside the coachman since.

He deposited her in the barouche beside her father, then quietly closed

the door and once more mounted to his seat on the box. The carriage

moved on again. M. de Kernogan was no longer lethargic, he looked down

on his daughter's inert form beside him, and not one look of tenderness

or compassion softened the hard callousness of his face.

"Any resistance, my child," he said coldly, "will as you see be useless

as well as undignified. I deplore this necessary violence, but I should

be forced once more to requisition M. Martin-Roget's help if you

attempted such foolish tricks again. When you are a little more calm, we

will talk openly together."

For the moment she was lying back against the cushions of the carriage;

her nerves having momentarily given way before this appalling

catastrophe which had overtaken her and the hideous outrage to which she

was being subjected by her own father. She was sobbing convulsively. But

in the face of his abominable callousness, she made a great effort to

regain her self-control. Her pride, her dignity came to the rescue. She

had had time in those few seconds to realise that she was indeed more

helpless than any bird in a fowler's net, and that only absolute calm

and presence of mind could possibly save her now.

If indeed there was the slightest hope of salvation.

She drew herself up and resolutely dried her eyes and readjusted her

hair and her hood and mantle.

"We can talk openly at once, sir," she said coldly. "I am ready to hear

what explanation you can offer for this monstrous outrage."

"I owe you no explanation, my child," he retorted calmly. "Presently

when you are restored to your own sense of dignity and of self-respect

you will remember that a lady of the house of Kernogan does not elope in

the night with a stranger and a heretic like some kitchen-wench. Having

so far forgotten herself my daughter must, alas! take the consequences,

which I deplore, of her own sins and lack of honour."

"And no doubt, father," she retorted, stung to the quick by his insults,

"that you too will anon be restored to your own sense of self-respect

and remember that hitherto no gentleman of the house of Kernogan has

acted the part of a liar and of a hypocrite!"

"Silence!" he commanded sternly.

"Yes!" she reiterated wildly, "it was the role of a liar and of a

hypocrite that you played from the moment when you sat down to pen that

letter full of protestations of affection and forgiveness, until like a

veritable Judas you betrayed your own daughter with a kiss. Shame on

you, father!" she cried. "Shame!"

"Enough!" he said, as he seized her wrist so roughly that the cry of

pain which involuntarily escaped her effectually checked the words in

her mouth. "You are mad, beside yourself, a thoughtless, senseless

creature whom I shall have to coerce more effectually if you do not

cease your ravings. Do not force me to have recourse once again to M.

Martin-Roget's assistance to keep your undignified outburst in check."

The name of the man whom she had learned to hate and fear more than any

other human being in the world was sufficient to restore to her that

measure of self-control which had again threatened to leave her.

"Enough indeed," she said more calmly; "the brain that could devise and

carry out such infamy in cold blood is not like to be influenced by a

defenceless woman's tears. Will you at least tell me whither you are

taking me?"

"We go to a place on the coast now," he replied coldly, "the outlandish

name of which has escaped me. There we embark for Holland, from whence

we shall join their Royal Highnesses at Coblentz. It is at Coblentz

that your marriage with M. Martin-Roget will take place, and...."

"Stay, father," she broke in, speaking quite as calmly as he did, "ere

you go any further. Understand me clearly, for I mean every word that I

say. In the sight of God--if not in that of the laws of France--I am the

wife of Lord Anthony Dewhurst. By everything that I hold most sacred and

most dear I swear to you that I will never become Martin-Roget's wife. I

would die first," she added with burning but resolutely suppressed

passion.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Pshaw, my child," he said quietly, "many a time since the world began

have women registered such solemn and sacred vows, only to break them

when force of circumstance and their own good sense made them ashamed of

their own folly."

"How little you know me, father," was all that she said in reply.

III

Indeed, Yvonne de Kernogan--Yvonne Dewhurst as she was now in sight of

God and men--had far too much innate dignity and self-respect to

continue this discussion, seeing that in any case she was physically the

weaker, and that she was absolutely helpless and defenceless in the

hands of two men, one of whom--her own father--who should have been her

protector, was leagued with her bitterest enemy against her.

That Martin-Roget was her enemy--aye and her father's too--she had

absolutely no doubt. Some obscure yet keen instinct was working in her

heart, urging her to mistrust him even more wholly than she had done

before. Just now, when he laid ruthless hands on her and carried her,

inert and half-swooning, back into the coach, and she lay with closed

eyes, her very soul in revolt against this contact with him, against the

feel of his arms around her, a vague memory surcharged with horror and

with dread stirred within her brain: and over the vista of the past few

years she looked back upon an evening in the autumn--a rough night with

the wind from the Atlantic blowing across the lowlands of Poitou and

soughing in the willow trees that bordered the Loire--she seemed to hear

the tumultuous cries of enraged human creatures dominating the sound of

the gale, she felt the crowd of evil-intentioned men around the closed

carriage wherein she sat, calm and unafraid. Darkness then was all

around her. She could not see. She could only hear and feel. And she

heard the carriage door being wrenched open, and she felt the cold

breath of the wind upon her cheek, and also the hot breath of a man in a

passion of fury and of hate.

She had seen nothing then, and mercifully semi-unconsciousness had

dulled her aching senses, but even now her soul shrunk with horror at

the vague remembrance of that ghostlike form--the spirit of hate and of

revenge--of its rough arms encircling her shoulders, its fingers under

her chin--and then that awful, loathsome, contaminating kiss which she

thought then would have smirched her for ever. It had taken all the

pure, sweet kisses of a brave and loyal man whom she loved and revered,

to make her forget that hideous, indelible stain: and in the arms of her

dear milor she had forgotten that one terrible moment, when she had felt

that the embrace of death must be more endurable than that of this

unknown and hated man.

It was the memory of that awful night which had come back to her as in a

flash while she lay passive and broken in Martin-Roget's arms. Of

course for the moment she had no thought of connecting the rich banker

from Brest, the enthusiastic royalist and _emigre_, with one of those

turbulent, uneducated peasant lads who had attacked her carriage that

night: all that she was conscious of was that she was outraged by his

presence, just as she had been outraged then, and that the contact of

his hands, of his arms, was absolutely unendurable.

To fight against the physical power which held her a helpless prisoner

in the hands of the enemy was sheer impossibility. She knew that, and

was too proud to make feeble and futile efforts which could only end in

defeat and further humiliation. She felt hideously wretched and

lonely--thoughts of her husband, who at this hour was still serenely

unconscious of the terrible catastrophe which had befallen him, brought

tears of acute misery to her eyes. What would he do when--to-morrow,

perhaps--he realised that his bride had been stolen from him, that he

had been fooled and duped as she had been too. What could he do when he

knew?

She tried to solace her own soul-agony by thinking of his influential

friends who, of course, would help him as soon as they knew. There was

that mysterious and potent friend of whom he spoke so little, who

already had warned him of coming danger and urged on the secret marriage

which should have proved a protection. There was Sir Percy Blakeney, of

whom he spoke much, who was enormously rich, independent, the most

intimate friend of the Regent himself. There was....

But what was the use of clinging even for one instant to those feeble

cords of Hope's broken lyre? By the time her dear lord knew that she was

gone, she would be on the high seas, far out of his reach.

And she had not even the solace of tears--heart-broken sobs rose in her

throat, but she resolutely kept them back. Her father's cold, impassive

face, the callous glitter in his eyes told her that every tear would be

in vain, her most earnest appeal an object for his sneers.

IV

As to how long the journey in the coach lasted after that Yvonne

Dewhurst could not have said. It may have been a few hours, it may have

been a cycle of years. She had been young--a happy bride, a dutiful

daughter--when she left Combwich Hall. She was an old woman now, a

supremely unhappy one, parted from the man she loved without hope of

ever seeing him again in life, and feeling nothing but hatred and

contempt for the father who had planned such infamy against her.

She offered no resistance whatever to any of her father's commands.

After the first outburst of revolt and indignation she had not even

spoken to him.

There was a halt somewhere on the way, when in the low-raftered room of

a posting-inn, she had to sit at table with the two men who had

compassed her misery. She was thirsty, feverish and weak: she drank some

milk in silence. She felt ill physically as well as mentally, and the

constant effort not to break down had helped to shatter her nerves. As

she had stepped out of the barouche without a word, so she stepped into

it again when it stood outside, ready with a fresh relay of horses to

take her further, still further, away from the cosy little nest where

even now her young husband was waiting longingly for her return. The

people of the inn--a kindly-looking woman, a portly middle-aged man, one

or two young ostlers and serving-maids were standing about in the yard

when her father led her to the coach. For a moment the wild idea rushed

to her mind to run to these people and demand their protection, to

proclaim at the top of her voice the infamous act which was dragging her

away from her husband and her home, and lead her a helpless prisoner to

a fate that was infinitely worse than death. She even ran to the woman

who looked so benevolent and so kind, she placed her small quivering

hand on the other's rough toil-worn one and in hurried, appealing words

begged for her help and the shelter of a home till she could communicate

with her husband.

The woman listened with a look of kindly pity upon her homely face, she

patted the small, trembling hand and stroked it gently, tears of

compassion gathered in her eyes:

"Yes, yes, my dear," she said soothingly, speaking as she would to a

sick woman or to a child, "I quite understand. I wouldna' fret if I was

you. I would jess go quietly with your pore father: 'e knows what's best

for you, that 'e do. You come 'long wi' me," she added as she drew

Yvonne's hands through her arm, "I'll see ye're comfortable in the

coach."

Yvonne, bewildered, could not at first understand either the woman's

sympathy or her obvious indifference to the pitiable tale, until--Oh!

the shame of it!--she saw the two young serving-maids looking on her

with equal pity expressed in their round eyes, and heard one of them

whispering to the other:

"Pore lady! so zad ain't it? I'm that zorry for the pore father!"

And the girl with a significant gesture indicated her own forehead and

glanced knowingly at her companion. Yvonne felt a hot flush rise to the

very roots of her hair. So her father and Martin-Roget had thought of

everything, and had taken every precaution to cut the ground from under

her feet. Wherever a halt was necessary, wherever the party might come

in contact with the curious or the indifferent, it would be given out

that the poor young lady was crazed, that she talked wildly, and had to

be kept under restraint.

Yvonne as she turned away from that last faint glimmer of hope,

encountered Martin-Roget's glance of triumph and saw the sneer which

curled his full lips. Her father came up to her just then and took her

over from the kindly hostess, with the ostentatious manner of one who

has charge of a sick person, and must take every precaution for her

welfare.

"Another loss of dignity, my child," he said to her in French, so that

none but Martin-Roget could catch what he said. "I guessed that you

would commit some indiscretion, you see, so M. Martin-Roget and myself

warned all the people at the inn the moment we arrived. We told them

that I was travelling with a sick daughter who had become crazed through

the death of her lover, and believed herself--like most crazed persons

do--to be persecuted and oppressed. You have seen the result. They

pitied you. Even the serving-maids smiled. It would have been wiser to

remain silent."

Whereupon he handed her into the barouche with loving care, a crowd of

sympathetic onlookers gazing with obvious compassion on the poor crazed

lady and her sorely tried father.

After this episode Yvonne gave up the struggle.

No one but God could help her, if He chose to perform a miracle.

V

The rest of the journey was accomplished in silence. Yvonne gazed,

unseeing, through the carriage window as the barouche rattled on the

cobble-stones of the streets of Bristol. She marvelled at the number of

people who went gaily by along the streets, unheeding, unknowing that

the greatest depths of misery to which any human being could sink had

been probed by the unfortunate young girl who wide-eyed, mute and

broken-hearted gazed out upon the busy world without.

Portishead was reached just when the grey light of day turned to a

gloomy twilight. Yvonne unresisting, insentient, went whither she was

bidden to go. Better that, than to feel Martin-Roget's coercive grip on

her arm, or to hear her father's curt words of command.

She walked along the pier and anon stepped into a boat, hardly knowing

what she was doing: the twilight was welcome to her, for it hid much

from her view and her eyes--hot with unshed tears--ached for the restful

gloom. She realised that the boat was being rowed along for some little

way down the stream, that Frederick, who had come she knew not how or

whence, was in the boat too with some luggage which she recognised as

being familiar: that another woman was there whom she did not know, but

who appeared to look after her comforts, wrapped a shawl closer round

her knees and drew the hood of her mantle closer round her neck. But it

was all like an ugly dream: the voices of her father and of

Martin-Roget, who were talking in monosyllables, the sound of the oars

as they struck the water, or creaked in their rowlocks, came to her as

from an ever-receding distance.

A couple of hours later she came back to complete consciousness. She

was in a narrow place, which at first appeared to her like a cupboard:

the atmosphere was both cold and stuffy and reeked of tar and of oil.

She was lying on a hard bed with her mantle and a shawl wrapped round

her. It was very dark save where the feeble glimmer of a lamp threw a

circle of light around. Above her head there was a constant and heavy

tramping of feet, and the sound of incessant and varied creakings and

groanings of wood, cordage and metal filled the night air with their

weird and dismal sounds. A slow feeling of movement coupled with a

gentle oscillation confirmed the unfortunate girl's first waking

impression that she was on board a ship. How she had got there she did

not know. She must ultimately have fainted in the small boat and been

carried aboard. She raised herself slightly on her elbow and peered

round her into the dark corners of the cabin: opposite to her upon a

bench, also wrapped up in shawl and mantle, lay the woman who had been

in attendance on her in the boat.

The woman's heavy breathing indicated that she was fast asleep.

Loneliness! Misery! Desolation encompassed the happy bride of yesterday.

With a moan of exquisite soul-agony she fell back against the hard

cushions, and for the first time this day a convulsive flow of tears

eased the superacuteness of her misery.

CHAPTER IX

THE COAST OF FRANCE

I

The whole of that wretched mournful day Yvonne Dewhurst spent upon the

deck of the ship which was bearing her away every hour, every minute,

further and still further from home and happiness. She seldom spoke: she

ate and drank when food was brought to her: she was conscious neither of

cold nor of wet, of well-being or ill. She sat upon a pile of cordages

in the stern of the ship leaning against the taffrail and in imagination

seeing the coast of England fade into illimitable space.

Part of the time it rained, and then she sat huddled up in the shawls

and tarpaulins which the woman placed about her: then, when the sun came

out, she still sat huddled up, closing her eyes against the glare.

When daylight faded into dusk, and then twilight into night she gazed

into nothingness as she had gazed on water and sky before, thinking,

thinking, thinking! This could not be the end--it could not. So much

happiness, such pure love, such perfect companionship as she had had

with the young husband whom she idolised could not all be wrenched from

her like that, without previous foreboding and without some warning from

Fate. This miserable, sordid, wretched journey to an unknown land could

not be the epilogue to the exquisite romance which had suddenly changed

the dreary monotony of her life into one long, glowing dream of joy and

of happiness! This could not be the end!

And gazing into the immensity of the far horizon she thought and thought

and racked her memory for every word, every look which she had had from

her dear milor. And upon the grey background of sea and sky she seemed

to perceive the vague and dim outline of that mysterious friend--the man

who knew everything--who foresaw everything, even and above all the

dangers that threatened those whom he loved. He had foreseen this awful

danger too! Oh! if only milor and she herself had realised its full

extent! But now surely! surely! he would help, he would know what to do.

Milor was wont to speak of him as being omniscient and having marvellous

powers.

Once or twice during the day M. le duc de Kernogan came to sit beside

his daughter and tried to speak a few words of comfort and of sympathy.

Of a truth--here on the open sea--far both from home and kindred and

from the new friends he had found in hospitable England--his heart smote

him for all the wrong he had done to his only child. He dared not think

of the gentle and patient wife who lay at rest in the churchyard of

Kernogan, for he feared that with his thoughts he would conjure up her

pale, avenging ghost who would demand an account of what he had done

with her child.

Cold and exposure--the discomfort of the long sea-journey in this rough

trading ship had somewhat damped M. de Kernogan's pride and obstinacy:

his loyalty to the cause of his King had paled before the demands of a

father's duty toward his helpless daughter.

II

It was close on six o'clock and the night, after the turbulent and

capricious alternations of rain and sunshine, promised to be beautifully

clear, though very cold. The pale crescent of the moon had just emerged

from behind the thick veil of cloud and mist which still hung

threateningly upon the horizon: a fitful sheen of silver danced upon the

waves.

M. le duc stood beside his daughter. He had inquired after her health

and well-being and received her monosyllabic reply with an impatient

sigh. M. Martin-Roget was pacing up and down the deck with restless and

vigorous strides: he had just gone by and made a loud and cheery comment

on the weather and the beauty of the night.

Could Yvonne Dewhurst have seen her father's face now, or had she cared

to study it, she would have perceived that he was gazing out to sea in

the direction to which the schooner was heading with an intent look of

puzzlement, and that there was a deep furrow between his brows. Half an

hour went by and he still stood there, silent and absorbed: then

suddenly a curious exclamation escaped his lips: he stooped and seized

his daughter by the wrist.

"Yvonne!" he said excitedly, "tell me! am I dreaming, or am I crazed?"

"What is it?" she asked coldly.

"Out there! Look! Just tell me what you see?"

He appeared so excited and his pressure on her wrist was so insistent

that she dragged herself to her feet and looked out to sea in the

direction to which he was pointing.

"Tell me what you see," he reiterated with ever-growing excitement, and

she felt that the hand which held her wrist trembled violently.

"The light from a lighthouse, I think," she said.

"And besides that?"

"Another light--a much smaller one--considerably higher up. It must be

perched up on some cliffs."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. There are lights dotted about here and there. Some village on the

coast."

"On the coast?" he murmured hoarsely, "and we are heading towards it."

"So it appears," she said indifferently. What cared she to what shore

she was being taken: every land save England was exile to her now.

Just at this moment M. Martin-Roget in his restless wanderings once more

passed by.

"M. Martin-Roget!" called the duc.

And vaguely Yvonne wondered why his voice trembled so.

"At your service, M. le duc," replied the other as he came to a halt,

and then stood with legs wide apart firmly planted upon the deck, his

hands buried in the pockets of his heavy mantle, his head thrown back,

as if defiantly, his whole attitude that of a master condescending to

talk with slaves.

"What are those lights over there, ahead of us?" asked M. le duc

quietly.

"The lighthouse of Le Croisic, M. le duc," replied Martin-Roget dryly,

"and of the guard-house above and the harbour below. All at your

service," he added, with a sneer.

"Monsieur...." exclaimed the duc.

"Eh? what?" queried the other blandly.

"What does this mean?"

In the vague, dim light of the moon Yvonne could just distinguish the

two men as they stood confronting one another. Martin-Roget, tall,

massive, with arms now folded across his breast, shrugging his broad

shoulders at the duc's impassioned query--and her father who suddenly

appeared to have shrunk within himself, who raised one trembling hand to

his forehead and with the other sought with pathetic entreaty the

support of his daughter's arm.

"What does this mean?" he murmured again.

"Only," replied Martin-Roget with a laugh, "that we are close to the

coast of France and that with this unpleasant but useful north-westerly

wind we shall be in Nantes two hours before midnight."

"In Nantes?" queried the duc vaguely, not understanding, speaking

tonelessly like a somnambulist or a man in a trance. He was leaning

heavily now on his daughter's arm, and she with that motherly instinct

which is ever present in a good woman's heart even in the presence of

her most cruel enemy, drew him tenderly towards her, gave him the

support he needed, not quite understanding herself yet what it was that

had befallen them both.

"Yes, in Nantes, M. le duc," reiterated Martin-Roget with a sneer.

"But 'twas to Holland we were going."

"To Nantes, M. le duc," retorted the other with a ringing note of

triumph in his voice, "to Nantes, from which you fled like a coward when

you realised that the vengeance of an outraged people had at last

overtaken you and your kind."

"I do not understand," stammered the duc, and mechanically

now--instinctively--father and daughter clung to one another as if each

was striving to protect the other from the raving fury of this madman.

Never for a moment did they believe that he was sane. Excitement, they

thought, had turned his brain: he was acting and speaking like one

possessed.

"I dare say it would take far longer than the next four hours while we

glide gently along the Loire, to make such as you understand that your

arrogance and your pride are destined to be humbled at last and that you

are now in the power of those men who awhile ago you did not deem worthy

to lick your boots. I dare say," he continued calmly, "you think that I

am crazed. Well! perhaps I am, but sane enough anyhow, M. le duc, to

enjoy the full flavour of revenge."

"Revenge?... what have we done?... what has my daughter done?..."

stammered the duc incoherently. "You swore you loved her ... desired to

make her your wife ... I consented ... she...."

Martin-Roget's harsh laugh broke in on his vague murmurings.

"And like an arrogant fool you fell into the trap," he said with calm

irony, "and you were too blind to see in Martin-Roget, suitor for your

daughter's hand, Pierre Adet, the son of the victim of your execrable

tyranny, the innocent man murdered at your bidding."

"Pierre Adet ... I don't understand."

"'Tis but little meseems that you do understand, M. le duc," sneered the

other. "But turn your memory back, I pray you, to the night four years

ago when a few hot-headed peasant lads planned to give you a fright in

your castle of Kernogan ... the plan failed and Pierre Adet, the leader

of that unfortunate band, managed to fly the country, whilst you, like a

crazed and blind tyrant, administered punishment right and left for the

fright which you had had. Just think of it! those boors! those louts!

that swinish herd of human cattle had dared to raise a cry of revolt

against you! To death with them all! to death! Where is Pierre Adet, the

leader of those hogs? to him an exemplary punishment must be meted! a

deterrent against any other attempt at revolt. Well, M. le duc, do you

remember what happened then? Pierre Adet, severely injured in the melee,

had managed to crawl away into safety. While he lay betwixt life and

death, first in the presbytery of Vertou, then in various ditches on his

way to Paris, he knew nothing of what happened at Nantes. When he

returned to consciousness and to active life he heard that his father,

Jean Adet the miller, who was innocent of any share in the revolt, had

been hanged by order of M. le duc de Kernogan."

He paused awhile and a curious laugh--half-convulsive and not unmixed

with sobs--shook his broad shoulders. Neither the duc nor Yvonne made

any comment on what they heard: the duc felt like a fly caught in a

death-dealing web. He was dazed with the horror of his position, dazed

above all with the rush of bitter remorse which had surged up in his

heart and mind, when he realised that it was his own folly, his

obstinacy--aye! and his heartlessness which had brought this awful fate

upon his daughter. And Yvonne felt that whatever she might endure of

misery and hopelessness was nothing in comparison with what her father

must feel with the addition of bitter self-reproach.

"Are you beginning to understand the position better now, M. le duc?"

queried Martin-Roget after awhile.

The duc sank back nerveless upon the pile of cordages close by. Yvonne

was leaning with her back against the taffrail, her two arms

outstretched, the north-west wind blowing her soft brown hair about her

face whilst her eyes sought through the gloom to read the lines of

cruelty and hatred which must be distorting Martin-Roget's face now.

"And," she said quietly after awhile, "you have waited all these years,

Monsieur, nursing thoughts of revenge and of hate against us. Ah!

believe me," she added earnestly, "though God knows my heart is full of

misery at this moment, and though I know that at your bidding death will

so soon claim me and my father as his own, yet would I not change my

wretchedness for yours."

"And I, citizeness," he said roughly, addressing her for the first time

in the manner prescribed by the revolutionary government, "would not

change places with any king or other tyrant on earth. Yes," he added as

he came a step or two closer to her, "I have waited all these years. For

four years I have thought and striven and planned, planned to be even

with your father and with you one day. You had fled the country--like

cowards, bah!--ready to lend your arms to the foreigner against your own

country in order to re-establish a tyrant upon the throne whom the whole

of the people of France loathed and detested. You had fled, but soon I

learned whither you had gone. Then I set to work to gain access to

you.... I learned English.... I too went to England ... under an assumed

name ... with the necessary introductions so as to gain a footing in the

circles in which you moved. I won your father's condescension--almost

his friendship!... The rich banker from Brest should be fleeced in order

to provide funds for the armies that were to devastate France--and the

rich banker of Brest refused to be fleeced unless he was lured by the

promise of Mlle. de Kernogan's hand in marriage."

"You need not, Monsieur," rejoined Yvonne coldly, while Martin-Roget

paused in order to draw breath, "you need not, believe me, take the

trouble to recount all the machinations which you carried through in

order to gain your ends. Enough that my father was so foolish as to

trust you, and that we are now completely in your power, but...."

"There is no 'but,'" he broke in gruffly, "you are in my power and will

be made to learn the law of the talion which demands an eye for an eye,

a life for a life: that is the law which the people are applying to that

herd of aristos who were arrogant tyrants once and are shrinking,

cowering slaves now. Oh! you were very proud that night, Mademoiselle

Yvonne de Kernogan, when a few peasant lads told you some home truths

while you sat disdainful and callous in your carriage, but there is one

fact that you can never efface from your memory, strive how you may, and

that is that for a few minutes I held you in my arms and that I kissed

you, my fine lady, aye! kissed you like I would any pert kitchen wench,

even I, Pierre Adet, the miller's son."

He drew nearer and nearer to her as he spoke; she, leaning against the

taffrail, could not retreat any further from him. He laughed.

"If you fall over into the water, I shall not complain," he said, "it

will save our proconsul the trouble, and the guillotine some work. But

you need not fear. I am not trying to kiss you again. You are nothing to

me, you and your father, less than nothing. Your death in misery and

wretchedness is all I want, whether you find a dishonoured grave in the

Loire or by suicide I care less than nothing. But let me tell you this,"

he added, and his voice came now like a hissing sound through his set

teeth, "that there is no intention on my part to make glorious martyrs

of you both. I dare say you have heard some pretty stories over in

England of aristos climbing the steps of the guillotine with an ecstatic

look of martyrdom upon their face: and tales of the tumbrils of Paris

laden with men and women going to their death and shouting "God save the

King" all the way. That is not the sort of paltry revenge which would

satisfy me. My father was hanged by yours as a malefactor--hanged, I

say, like a common thief! he, a man who had never wronged a single soul

in the whole course of his life, who had been an example of fine living,

of hard work, of noble courage through many adversities. My mother was

left a widow--not the honoured widow of an honourable man--but a pariah,

the relict of a malefactor who had died of the hangman's rope--my sister

was left an orphan--dishonoured--without hope of gaining the love of a

respectable man. All that I and my family owe to ci-devant M. le duc de

Kernogan, and therefore I tell you, that both he and his

daughter shall not die like martyrs but like malefactors

too--shamed--dishonoured--loathed and execrated even by their own

kindred! Take note of that, M. le duc de Kernogan! You have sown shame,

shame shall you reap! and the name of which you are so proud will be

dragged in the mire until it has become a by-word in the land for all

that is despicable and base."

Perhaps at no time of his life had Martin-Roget, erstwhile Pierre Adet,

spoken with such an intensity of passion, even though he was at all

times turbulent and a ready prey to his own emotions. But all that he

had kept hidden in the inmost recesses of his heart, ever since as a

young stripling he had chafed at the social conditions of his country,

now welled forth in that wild harangue. For the first time in his life

he felt that he was really master of those who had once despised and

oppressed him. He held them and was the arbiter of their fate. The

sense of possession and of power had gone to his head like wine: he was

intoxicated with his own feeling of triumphant revenge, and this

impassioned rhetoric flowed from his mouth like the insentient babble of

a drunken man.

The duc de Kernogan, sitting on the coil of cordages with his elbows on

his knees and his head buried in his hands, had no thought of breaking

in on the other man's ravings. The bitterness of remorse paralysed his

thinking faculties. Martin-Roget's savage words struck upon his senses

like blows from a sledge-hammer. He knew that nothing but his own folly

was the cause of Yvonne's and his own misfortune. Yvonne had been safe

from all evil fortune under the protection of her fine young English

husband; he--the father who should have been her chief protector--had

dragged her by brute force away from that husband's care and had landed

her ... where?... A shudder like acute ague went through the unfortunate

man's whole body as he thought of the future.

Nor did Yvonne Dewhurst attempt to make reply to her enemy's delirious

talk. She would not give him even the paltry satisfaction of feeling

that he had stung her into a retort. She did not fear him--she hated him

too much for that--but like her father she had no illusions as to his

power over them both. While he stormed and raved she kept her eyes

steadily fixed upon him. She could only just barely distinguish him in

the gloom, and he no doubt failed to see the expression of lofty

indifference wherewith she contrived to regard him: but he _felt_ her

contempt, and but for the presence of the sailors on the deck he

probably would have struck her.

As it was when, from sheer lack of breath, he had to pause, he gave one

last look of hate on the huddled figure of the duc, and the proud,

upstanding one of Yvonne, then with a laugh which sounded like that of a

fiend--so cruel, so callous was it, he turned on his heel, and as he

strode away towards the bow his tall figure was soon absorbed in the

surrounding gloom.

III

The duc de Kernogan and his daughter saw little or nothing of

Martin-Roget after that. For awhile longer they caught sight of him from

time to time as he walked up and down the deck with ceaseless

restlessness and in the company of another man, who was much shorter and

slimmer than himself and whom they had not noticed hitherto.

Martin-Roget talked most of the time in a loud and excited voice, the

other appearing to listen to him with a certain air of deference.

Whether the conversation between these two was actually intended for the

ears of the two unfortunates, or whether it was merely chance which

brought certain phrases to their ears when the two men passed closely

by, it were impossible to say. Certain it is that from such chance

phrases they gathered that the barque would not put into Nantes, as the

navigation of the Loire was suspended for the nonce by order of

Proconsul Carrier. He had need of the river for his awesome and

nefarious deeds. Yvonne's ears were regaled with tales--told with loud

ostentation--of the terrible _noyades_, the wholesale drowning of men,

women and children, malefactors and traitors, so as to ease the burden

of the guillotine.

After three bells it got so bitterly cold that Yvonne, fearing that her

father would become seriously ill, suggested their going down to their

stuffy cabins together. After all, even the foul and shut-up atmosphere

of these close, airless cupboards was preferable to the propinquity of

those two human fiends up on deck and the tales of horror and brutality

which they loved to tell.

And for two hours after that, father and daughter sat in the narrow

cell-like place, locked in each other's arms. She had everything to

forgive, and he everything to atone for: but Yvonne suffered so acutely,

her misery was so great that she found it in her heart to pity the

father whose misery must have been even greater than hers. The supreme

solace of bestowing love and forgiveness and of easing the racking

paroxysms of remorse which brought the unfortunate man to the verge of

dementia, warmed her heart towards him and brought surcease to her own

sorrow.

BOOK TWO: NANTES, DECEMBER, 1793

CHAPTER I

THE TIGER'S LAIR

I

Nantes is in the grip of the tiger.

Representative Carrier--with powers as of a proconsul--has been sent

down to stamp out the lingering remnants of the counter-revolution. La

Vendee is temporarily subdued; the army of the royalists driven back

across the Loire; but traitors still abound--this the National

Convention in Paris hath decreed--there are traitors everywhere. They

were not _all_ massacred at Cholet and Savenay. Disbanded, yes! but not

exterminated, and wolves must not be allowed to run loose, lest they

band again, and try to devour the flocks.

Therefore extermination is the order of the day. Every traitor or

would-be traitor--every son and daughter and father and mother of

traitors must be destroyed ere they do more mischief. And

Carrier--Carrier the coward who turned tail and bolted at Cholet--is

sent to Nantes to carry on the work of destruction. Wolves and wolflings

all! Let none survive. Give them fair trial, of course. As traitors they

have deserved death--have they not taken up arms against the Republic

and against the Will and the Reign of the People? But let a court of

justice sit in Nantes town; let the whole nation know how traitors are

dealt with: let the nation see that her rulers are both wise and just.

Let wolves and wolflings be brought up for trial, and set up the

guillotine on Place du Bouffay with four executioners appointed to do

her work. There would be too much work for two, or even three. Let there

be four--and let the work of extermination be complete.

And Carrier--with powers as of a proconsul--arrives in Nantes town and

sets to work to organise his household. Civil and military--with pomp

and circumstance--for the son of a small farmer, destined originally for

the Church and for obscurity is now virtual autocrat in one of the great

cities of France. He has power of life and death over thousands of

citizens--under the direction of justice, of course! So now he has

citizens of the bedchamber, and citizens of the household, he has a

guard of honour and a company of citizens of the guard. And above all he

has a crowd of spies around him--servants of the Committee of Public

Safety so they are called--they style themselves "La Compagnie Marat" in

honour of the great patriot who was foully murdered by a female

wolfling.

So la Compagnie Marat is formed--they wear red bonnets on their

heads--no stockings on their feet--short breeches to display their bare

shins: their captain, Fleury, has access at all times to the person of

the proconsul, to make report on the raids which his company effect at

all hours of the day or night. Their powers are supreme too. In and out

of houses--however private--up and down the streets--through shops,

taverns and warehouses, along the quays and the yards--everywhere they

go. Everywhere they have the right to go! to ferret and to spy, to

listen, to search, to interrogate--the red-capped Company is paid for

what it can find. Piece-work, what? Work for the guillotine!

And they it is who keep the guillotine busy. Too busy in fact. And the

court of justice sitting in the Hotel du Departement is overworked too.

Carrier gets impatient. Why waste the time of patriots by so much

paraphernalia of justice? Wolves and wolflings can be exterminated so

much more quickly, more easily than that. It only needs a stroke of

genius, one stroke, and Carrier has it.

He invents the _Noyades_!

The Drownages we may call them!

They are so simple! An old flat-bottomed barge. The work of two or three

ship's carpenters! Portholes below the water-line and made to open at a

given moment. All so very, very simple. Then a journey downstream as far

as Belle Isle or la Marechale, and "sentence of deportation" executed

without any trouble on a whole crowd of traitors--"vertical deportation"

Carrier calls it facetiously and is mightily proud of his invention and

of his witticism too.

The first attempt was highly successful. Ninety priests, and not one

escaped. Think of the work it would have entailed on the guillotine--and

on the friends of Carrier who sit in justice in the Hotel du

Departement! Ninety heads! Bah! That old flat-bottomed barge is the most

wonderful labour-saving machine.

After that the "Drownages" become the order of the day. The red-capped

Company recruits victims for the hecatomb, and over Nantes Town there

hangs a pall of unspeakable horror. The prisons are not vast enough to

hold all the victims, so the huge entrepot, the bonded warehouse on the

quay, is converted: instead of chests of coffee it is now encumbered

with human freight: into it pell-mell are thrown all those who are

destined to assuage Carrier's passion for killing: ten thousand of them:

men, women, and young children, counter-revolutionists, innocent

tradesmen, thieves, aristocrats, criminals and women of evil fame--they

are herded together like cattle, without straw whereon to lie, without

water, without fire, with barely food enough to keep up the last

attenuated thread of a miserable existence.

And when the warehouse gets over full, to the Loire with them!--a

hundred or two at a time! Pestilence, dysentery decimates their numbers.

Under pretence of hygienic requirements two hundred are flung into the

river on the 14th day of December. Two hundred--many of them

women--crowds of children and a batch of parish priests.

Some there are among Carrier's colleagues--those up in Paris--who

protest! Such wholesale butchery will not redound to the credit of any

revolutionary government--it even savours of treachery--it is

unpatriotic! There are the emissaries of the National Convention,

deputed from Paris to supervise and control--they protest as much as

they dare--but such men are swept off their feet by the torrent of

Carrier's gluttony for blood. Carrier's mission is to "purge the

political body of every evil that infests it." Vague and yet precise! He

reckons that he has full powers and thinks he can flaunt those powers in

the face of those sent to control him. He does it too for three whole

months ere he in his turn meets his doom. But for the moment he is

omnipotent. He has to make report every week to the Committee of Public

Safety, and he sends brief, garbled versions of his doings. "He is

pacifying La Vendee! he is stamping out the remnants of the rebellion!

he is purging the political body of every evil that infests it." Anon he

succeeds in getting the emissaries of the National Convention recalled.

He is impatient of control. "They are weak, pusillanimous, unpatriotic!

He must have freedom to act for the best."

After that he remains virtual dictator, with none but obsequious,

terrified myrmidons around him: these are too weak to oppose him in any

way. And the municipality dare not protest either--nor the district

council--nor the departmental. They are merely sheep who watch others of

their flock being sent to the slaughter.

After that from within his lair the man tiger decides that it is a pity

to waste good barges on the cattle: "Fling them out!" he cries. "Fling

them out! Tie two and two together. Man and woman! criminal and aristo!

the thief with the ci-devant duke's daughter! the ci-devant marquis with

the slut from the streets! Fling them all out together into the Loire

and pour a hail of grape shot above them until the last struggler has

disappeared!" "Equality!" he cries, "Equality for all! Fraternity! Unity

in death!"

His friends call this new invention of his: "Marriage Republicain!" and

he is pleased with the _mot_.

And Republican marriages become the order of the day.

II

Nantes itself now is akin to a desert--a desert wherein the air is

filled with weird sounds of cries and of moans, of furtive footsteps

scurrying away into dark and secluded byways, of musketry and confused

noises, of sorrow and of lamentations.

Nantes is a city of the dead--a city of sleepers. Only Carrier is

awake--thinking and devising and planning shorter ways and swifter, for

the extermination of traitors.

In the Hotel de la Villestreux the tiger has built his lair: at the apex

of the island of Feydeau, with the windows of the hotel facing straight

down the Loire. From here there is a magnificent view downstream upon

the quays which are now deserted and upon the once prosperous port of

Nantes.

The staircase of the hotel which leads up to the apartments of the

proconsul is crowded every day and all day with suppliants and with

petitioners, with the citizens of the household and the members of the

Compagnie Marat.

But no one has access to the person of the dictator. He stands aloof,

apart, hidden from the eyes of the world, a mysterious personality whose

word sends hundreds to their death, whose arbitrary will has reduced a

once flourishing city to abject poverty and squalor. No tyrant has ever

surrounded himself with a greater paraphernalia of pomp and

circumstance--no aristo has ever dwelt in greater luxury: the spoils of

churches and chateaux fill the Hotel de la Villestreux from attic to

cellar, gold and silver plate adorn his table, priceless works of art

hang upon his walls, he lolls on couches and chairs which have been the

resting-place of kings. The wholesale spoliation of the entire

country-side has filled the demagogue's abode with all that is most

sumptuous in the land.

And he himself is far more inaccessible than was _le Roi Soleil_ in the

days of his most towering arrogance, than were the Popes in the glorious

days of mediaeval Rome. Jean Baptiste Carrier, the son of a small farmer,

the obscure deputy for Cantal in the National Convention, dwells in the

Hotel de la Villestreux as in a stronghold. No one is allowed near him

save a few--a very few--intimates: his valet, two or three women, Fleury

the commander of the Marats, and that strange and abominable youngster,

Jacques Lalouet, about whom the chroniclers of that tragic epoch can

tell us so little--a cynical young braggart, said to be a cousin of

Robespierre and the son of a midwife of Nantes, beardless, handsome and

vicious: the only human being--so we are told--who had any influence

over the sinister proconsul: mere hanger-on of Carrier or spy of the

National Convention, no one can say--a malignant personality which has

remained an enigma and a mystery to this hour.

None but these few are ever allowed now inside the inner sanctuary

wherein dwells and schemes the dictator. Even Lamberty, Fouquet and the

others of the staff are kept at arm's length. Martin-Roget, Chauvelin

and other strangers are only allowed as far as the ante-room. The door

of the inner chamber is left open and they hear the proconsul's voice

and see his silhouette pass and repass in front of them, but that is

all.

Fear of assassination--the inevitable destiny of the tyrant--haunts the

man-tiger even within the fastnesses of his lair. Day and night a

carriage with four horses stands in readiness on La Petite Hollande, the

great, open, tree-bordered Place at the extreme end of the Isle Feydeau

and on which give the windows of the Hotel de la Villestreux. Day and

night the carriage is ready--with coachman on the box and postillion in

the saddle, who are relieved every two hours lest they get sleepy or

slack--with luggage in the boot and provisions always kept fresh inside

the coach; everything always ready lest something--a warning from a

friend or a threat from an enemy, or merely a sudden access of

unreasoning terror, the haunting memory of a bloody act--should decide

the tyrant at a moment's notice to fly from the scenes of his

brutalities.

III

Carrier in the small room which he has fitted up for himself as a

sumptuous boudoir, paces up and down just like a wild beast in its cage:

and he rubs his large bony hands together with the excitement engendered

by his own cruelties, by the success of this wholesale butchery which he

has invented and carried through.

There never was an uglier man than Carrier, with that long hatchet-face

of his, those abnormally high cheekbones, that stiff, lanky hair, that

drooping, flaccid mouth and protruding underlip. Nature seemed to have

set herself the task of making the face a true mirror of the soul--the

dark and hideous soul on which of a surety Satan had already set his

stamp. But he is dressed with scrupulous care--not to say elegance--and

with a display of jewelry the provenance of which is as unjustifiable as

that of the works of art which fill his private sanctum in every nook

and cranny.

In front of the tall window, heavy curtains of crimson damask are drawn

closely together, in order to shut out the light of day: the room is in

all but total darkness: for that is the proconsul's latest caprice: that

no one shall see him save in semi-obscurity.

Captain Fleury has stumbled into the room, swearing lustily as he barks

his shins against the angle of a priceless Louis XV bureau. He has to

make report on the work done by the Compagnie Marat. Fifty-three priests

from the department of Anjou who have refused to take the new oath of

obedience to the government of the Republic. The red-capped Company who

tracked them down and arrested them, vow that all these _calotins_ have

precious objects--money, jewelry, gold plate--concealed about their

persons. What is to be done about these things? Are the _calotins_ to be

allowed to keep them or to dispose of them for their own profit?

Carrier is highly delighted. What a haul!

"Confiscate everything," he cries, "then ship the whole crowd of that

pestilential rabble, and don't let me hear another word about them."

Fleury goes. And that same night fifty-three priests are "shipped" in

accordance with the orders of the proconsul, and Carrier, still rubbing

his large bony hands contentedly together, exclaims with glee:

"What a torrent, eh! What a torrent! What a revolution!"

And he sends a letter to Robespierre. And to the Committee of Public

Safety he makes report:

"Public spirit in Nantes," he writes, "is magnificent: it has risen to

the most sublime heights of revolutionary ideals."

IV

After the departure of Fleury, Carrier suddenly turned to a slender

youth, who was standing close by the window, gazing out through the

folds of the curtain on the fine vista of the Loire and the quays which

stretched out before him.

"Introduce citizen Martin-Roget into the ante-room now, Lalouet," he

said loftily. "I will hear what he has to say, and citizen Chauvelin may

present himself at the same time."

Young Lalouet lolled across the room, smothering a yawn.

"Why should you trouble about all that rabble?" he said roughly, "it is

nearly dinner-time and you know that the chef hates the soup to be kept

waiting."

"I shall not trouble about them very long," replied Carrier, who had

just started picking his teeth with a tiny gold tool. "Open the door,

boy, and let the two men come."

Lalouet did as he was told. The door through which he passed he left

wide open, he then crossed the ante-room to a further door, threw it

open and called in a loud voice:

"Citizen Chauvelin! Citizen Martin-Roget!"

For all the world like the ceremonious audiences at Versailles in the

days of the great Louis.

There was sound of eager whisperings, of shuffling of feet, of chairs

dragged across the polished floor. Young Lalouet had already and quite

unconcernedly turned his back on the two men who, at his call, had

entered the room.

Two chairs were placed in front of the door which led to the private

sanctuary--still wrapped in religious obscurity--where Carrier sat

enthroned. The youth curtly pointed to the two chairs, then went back to

the inner room. The two men advanced. The full light of midday fell upon

them from the tall window on their right--the pale, grey, colourless

light of December. They bowed slightly in the direction of the audience

chamber where the vague silhouette of the proconsul was alone visible.

The whole thing was a farce. Martin-Roget held his lips tightly closed

together lest a curse or a sneer escaped them. Chauvelin's face was

impenetrable--but it is worthy of note that just one year later when the

half-demented tyrant was in his turn brought before the bar of the

Convention and sentenced to the guillotine, it was citizen Chauvelin's

testimony which weighed most heavily against him.

There was silence for a time: Martin-Roget and Chauvelin were waiting

for the dictator's word. He sat at his desk with the scanty light, which

filtrated between the curtains, immediately behind him, his ungainly

form with the high shoulders and mop-like, shaggy hair half swallowed up

by the surrounding gloom. He was deliberately keeping the other two men

waiting and busied himself with turning over desultorily the papers and

writing tools upon his desk, in the intervals of picking at his teeth

and muttering to himself all the time as was his wont. Young Lalouet had

resumed his post beside the curtained window and he was giving sundry

signs of his growing impatience.

At last Carrier spoke:

"And now, citizen Martin-Roget," he said in tones of that lofty

condescension which he loved to affect, "I am prepared to hear what you

have to tell me with regard to the cattle which you brought into our

city the other day. Where are the aristos now? and why have they not

been handed over to commandant Fleury?"

"The girl," replied Martin-Roget, who had much ado to keep his vehement

temper in check, and who chose for the moment to ignore the second of

Carrier's peremptory queries, "the girl is in lodgings in the Carrefour

de la Poissonnerie. The house is kept by my sister, whose lover was

hanged four years ago by the ci-devant duc de Kernogan for trapping two

pigeons. A dozen or so lads from our old village--men who worked with my

father and others who were my friends--lodge in my sister's house. They

keep a watchful eye over the wench for the sake of the past, for my sake

and for the sake of my sister Louise. The ci-devant Kernogan woman is

well-guarded. I am satisfied as to that."

"And where is the ci-devant duc?"

"In the house next door--a tavern at the sign of the Rat Mort--a place

which is none too reputable, but the landlord--Lemoine--is a good

patriot and he is keeping a close eye on the aristo for me."

"And now will you tell me, citizen," rejoined Carrier with that unctuous

suavity which always veiled a threat, "will you tell me how it comes

that you are keeping a couple of traitors alive all this while at the

country's expense?"

"At mine," broke in Martin-Roget curtly.

"At the country's expense," reiterated the proconsul inflexibly. "Bread

is scarce in Nantes. What traitors eat is stolen from good patriots. If

you can afford to fill two mouths at your expense, I can supply you with

some that have never done aught but proclaim their adherence to the

Republic. You have had those two aristos inside the city nearly a week

and----"

"Only three days," interposed Martin-Roget, "and you must have patience

with me, citizen Carrier. Remember I have done well by you, by bringing

such high game to your bag----"

"Your high game will be no use to me," retorted the other with a harsh

laugh, "if I am not to have the cooking of it. You have talked of

disgrace for the rabble and of your own desire for vengeance over them,

but----"

"Wait, citizen," broke in Martin-Roget firmly, "let us understand one

another. Before I embarked on this business you gave me your promise

that no one--not even you--would interfere between me and my booty."

"And no one has done so hitherto to my knowledge, citizen," rejoined

Carrier blandly. "The Kernogan rabble has been yours to do with what you

like--er--so far," he added significantly. "I said that I would not

interfere and I have not done so up to now, even though the

pestilential crowd stinks in the nostrils of every good patriot in

Nantes. But I don't deny that it was a bargain that you should have a

free hand with them ... for a time, and Jean Baptiste Carrier has never

yet gone back on a given word."

Martin-Roget made no comment on this peroration. He shrugged his broad

shoulders and suddenly fell to contemplating the distant landscape. He

had turned his head away in order to hide the sneer which curled his

lips at the recollection of that "bargain" struck with the imperious

proconsul. It was a matter of five thousand francs which had passed from

one pocket to the other and had bound Carrier down to a definite

promise.

After a brief while Carrier resumed: "At the same time," he said, "my

promise was conditional, remember. I want that cattle out of Nantes--I

want the bread they eat--I want the room they occupy. I can't allow you

to play fast and loose with them indefinitely--a week is quite long

enough----"

"Three days," corrected Martin-Roget once more.

"Well! three days or eight," rejoined the other roughly. "Too long in

any case. I must be rid of them out of this city or I shall have all the

spies of the Convention about mine ears. I am beset with spies, citizen

Martin-Roget, yes, even I--Jean Baptiste Carrier--the most selfless the

most devoted patriot the Republic has ever known! Mine enemies up in

Paris send spies to dog my footsteps, to watch mine every action. They

are ready to pounce upon me at the slightest slip, to denounce me, to

drag me to their bar--they have already whetted the knife of the

guillotine which is to lay low the head of the finest patriot in

France----"

"Hold on! hold on, Jean Baptiste my friend," here broke in young Lalouet

with a sneer, "we don't want protestations of your patriotism just now.

It is nearly dinner time."

Carrier had been carried away by his own eloquence. At Lalouet's mocking

words he pulled himself together: murmured: "You young viper!" in tones

of tigerish affection, and then turned back to Martin-Roget and resumed

more calmly:

"They'll be saying that I harbour aristos in Nantes if I keep that

Kernogan rabble here any longer. So I must be rid of them, citizen

Martin-Roget ... say within the next four-and-twenty hours...." He

paused for a moment or two, then added drily: "That is my last word, and

you must see to it. What is it you do want to do with them enfin?"

"I want their death," replied Martin-Roget with a curse, and he brought

his heavy fist crashing down upon the arm of his chair, "but not a

martyr's death, understand? I don't want the pathetic figure of Yvonne

Kernogan and her father to remain as a picture of patient resignation in

the hearts and minds of every other aristo in the land. I don't want it

to excite pity or admiration. Death is nothing for such as they! they

glory in it! they are proud to die. The guillotine is their final

triumph! What I want for them is shame ... degradation ... a sensational

trial that will cover them with dishonour.... I want their name dragged

in the mire--themselves an object of derision or of loathing. I want

articles in the _Moniteur_ giving account of the trial of the ci-devant

duc de Kernogan and his daughter for something that is ignominious and

base. I want shame and mud slung at them--noise and beating of drums to

proclaim their dishonour. Noise! noise! that will reach every corner of

the land, aye that will reach Coblentz and Germany and England. It is

that which they would resent--the shame of it--the disgrace to their

name!"

"Tshaw!" exclaimed Carrier. "Why don't you marry the wench, citizen

Martin-Roget? That would be disgrace enough for her, I'll warrant," he

added with a loud laugh, enchanted at his witticism.

"I would to-morrow," replied the other, who chose to ignore the coarse

insult, "if she would consent. That is why I have kept her at my

sister's house these three days."

"Bah! you have no need of a traitor's consent. My consent is

sufficient.... I'll give it if you like. The laws of the Republic

permit, nay desire every good patriot to ally himself with an aristo, if

he have a mind. And the Kernogan wench face to face with the

guillotine--or worse--would surely prefer your embraces, citizen, what?"

A deep frown settled between Martin-Roget's glowering eyes, and gave his

face a sinister expression.

"I wonder ..." he muttered between his teeth.

"Then cease wondering, citizen," retorted Carrier cynically, "and try

our Republican marriage on your Kernogans ... thief linked to aristo,

cut-throat to a proud wench ... and then the Loire! Shame? Dishonour?

Fal lal I say! Death, swift and sure and unerring. Nothing better has

yet been invented for traitors."

Martin-Roget shrugged his shoulders.

"You have never known," he said quietly, "what it is to hate."

Carrier uttered an exclamation of impatience.

"Bah!" he said, "that is all talk and nonsense. Theories, what? Citizen

Chauvelin is a living example of the futility of all that rubbish. He

too has an enemy it seems whom he hates more thoroughly than any good

patriot has ever hated the enemies of the Republic. And hath this

deadly hatred availed him, forsooth? He too wanted the disgrace and

dishonour of that confounded Englishman whom I would simply have tossed

into the Loire long ago, without further process. What is the result?

The Englishman is over in England, safe and sound, making long noses at

citizen Chauvelin, who has much ado to keep his own head out of the

guillotine."

Martin-Roget once more was silent: a look of sullen obstinacy had

settled upon his face.

"You may be right, citizen Carrier," he muttered after awhile.

"I am always right," broke in Carrier curtly.

"Exactly ... but I have your promise."

"And I'll keep it, as I have said, for another four and twenty hours.

Curse you for a mulish fool," added the proconsul with a snarl, "what in

the d----l's name do you want to do? You have talked a vast deal of

rubbish but you have told me nothing of your plans. Have you any ...

that are worthy of my attention?"

V

Martin-Roget rose from his seat and began pacing up and down the narrow

room. His nerves were obviously on edge. It was difficult for any

man--let alone one of his temperament and half-tutored disposition--to

remain calm and deferential in face of the overbearance of this brutal

Jack-in-office, Martin-Roget--himself an upstart--loathed the offensive

self-assertion of that uneducated and bestial parvenu, who had become

all-powerful through the sole might of his savagery, and it cost him a

mighty effort to keep a violent retort from escaping his lips--a retort

which probably would have cost him his head.

Chauvelin, on the other hand, appeared perfectly unconcerned. He

possessed the art of outward placidity to a masterly degree. Throughout

all this while he had taken no part in the discussion. He sat silent and

all but motionless, facing the darkened room in front of him, as if he

had done nothing else in all his life but interview great dictators who

chose to keep their sacred persons in the dark. Only from time to time

did his slender fingers drum a tattoo on the arm of his chair.

Carrier had resumed his interesting occupation of picking his teeth: his

long, thin legs were stretched out before him; from beneath his flaccid

lids he shot swift glances upwards, whenever Martin-Roget in his

restless pacing crossed and recrossed in front of the open door. But

anon, when the latter came to a halt under the lintel and with his foot

almost across the threshold, young Lalouet was upon him in an instant,

barring the way to the inner sanctum.

"Keep your distance, citizen," he said drily, "no one is allowed to

enter here."

Instinctively Martin-Roget had drawn back--suddenly awed despite himself

by the air of mystery which hung over that darkened room, and by the dim

silhouette of the sinister tyrant who at his approach had with equal

suddenness cowered in his lair, drawing his limbs together and thrusting

his head forward, low down over the desk, like a leopard crouching for a

spring. But this spell of awe only lasted a few seconds, during which

Martin-Roget's unsteady gaze encountered the half-mocking, wholly

supercilious glance of young Lalouet.

The next, he had recovered his presence of mind. But this crowning act

of audacious insolence broke the barrier of his self-restraint. An angry

oath escaped him.

"Are we," he exclaimed roughly, "back in the days of Capet, the tyrant,

and of Versailles, that patriots and citizens are treated like menials

and obtrusive slaves? Pardieu, citizen Carrier, let me tell you

this...."

"Pardieu, citizen Martin-Roget," retorted Carrier with a growl like that

of a savage dog, "let _me_ tell _you_ that for less than two pins I'll

throw you into the next barge that will float with open portholes down

the Loire. Get out of my presence, you swine, ere I call Fleury to throw

you out."

Martin-Roget at the insult and the threat had become as pale as the

linen at his throat: a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead and he

passed his hand two or three times across his brow like a man dazed with

a sudden and violent blow. His nerves, already overstrained and very

much on edge, gave way completely. He staggered and would have measured

his length across the floor, but that his hand encountered the back of

his chair and he just contrived to sink into it, sick and faint,

horror-struck and pallid.

A low cackle--something like a laugh--broke from Chauvelin's thin lips.

As usual he had witnessed the scene quite unmoved.

"My friend Martin-Roget forgot himself for the moment, citizen Carrier,"

he said suavely, "already he is ready to make amends."

Jacques Lalouet looked down for a moment with infinite scorn expressed

in his fine eyes, on the presumptuous creature who had dared to defy the

omnipotent representative of the People. Then he turned on his heel, but

he did not go far this time: he remained standing close beside the

door--the terrier guarding his master.

Carrier laughed loud and long. It was a hideous, strident laugh which

had not a tone of merriment in it.

"Wake up, friend Martin-Roget," he said harshly, "I bear no malice: I am

a good dog when I am treated the right way. But if anyone pulls my tail

or treads on my paws, why! I snarl and growl of course. If the offence

is repeated ... I bite ... remember that; and now let us resume our

discourse, though I confess I am getting tired of your Kernogan rabble."

While the great man spoke, Martin-Roget had succeeded in pulling himself

together. His throat felt parched, his hands hot and moist: he was like

a man who had been stumbling along a road in the dark and been suddenly

pulled up on the edge of a yawning abyss into which he had all but

fallen. With a few harsh words, with a monstrous insult Carrier had made

him feel the gigantic power which could hurl any man from the heights of

self-assurance and of ambition to the lowest depths of degradation: he

had shown him the glint of steel upon the guillotine.

He had been hit as with a sledge-hammer--the blow hurt terribly, for it

had knocked all his self-esteem into nothingness and pulverised his

self-conceit. It had in one moment turned him into a humble and cringing

sycophant.

"I had no mind," he began tentatively, "to give offence. My thoughts

were bent on the Kernogans. They are a fine haul for us both, citizen

Carrier, and I worked hard and long to obtain their confidence over in

England and to induce them to come with me to Nantes."

"No one denies that you have done well," retorted Carrier gruffly and

not yet wholly pacified. "If the haul had not been worth having you

would have received no help from me."

"I have shown my gratitude for your help, citizen Carrier. I would show

it again ... more substantially if you desire...."

He spoke slowly and quite deferentially but the suggestion was obvious.

Carrier looked up into his face: the light of measureless cupidity--the

cupidity of the coarse-grained, enriched peasant--glittered in his pale

eyes. It was by a great effort of will that he succeeded in concealing

his eagerness beneath his habitual air of lofty condescension:

"Eh? What?" he queried airily.

"If another five thousand francs is of any use to you...."

"You seem passing rich, citizen Martin-Roget," sneered Carrier.

"I have slaved and saved for four years. What I have amassed I will

sacrifice for the completion of my revenge."

"Well!" rejoined Carrier with an expressive wave of the hand, "it

certainly is not good for a pure-minded republican to own too much

wealth. Have we not fought," he continued with a grandiloquent gesture,

"for equality of fortune as well as of privileges...."

A sardonic laugh from young Lalouet broke in on the proconsul's eloquent

effusion.

Carrier swore as was his wont, but after a second or two he began again

more quietly:

"I will accept a further six thousand francs from you, citizen

Martin-Roget, in the name of the Republic and all her needs. The

Republic of France is up in arms against the entire world. She hath need

of men, of arms, of...."

"Oh! cut that," interposed young Lalouet roughly.

But the over-vain, high and mighty despot who was ready to lash out with

unbridled fury against the slightest show of disrespect on the part of

any other man, only laughed at the boy's impudence.

"Curse you, you young viper," he said with that rude familiarity which

he seemed to reserve for the boy, "you presume too much on my

forbearance. These children you know, citizen.... Name of a dog!" he

added roughly, "we are wasting time! What was I saying ...?"

"That you would take six thousand francs," replied Martin-Roget curtly,

"in return for further help in the matter of the Kernogans."

"Why, yes!" rejoined Carrier blandly, "I was forgetting. But I'll show

you what a good dog I am. I'll help you with those Kernogans ... but you

mistook my words, citizen: 'tis ten thousand francs you must pour into

the coffers of the Republic, for her servants will have to be placed at

the disposal of your private schemes of vengeance."

"Ten thousand francs is a large sum," said Martin-Roget. "Let me hear

what you will do for me for that."

He had regained something of his former complacency. The man who

buys--be it goods, consciences or services--is always for the moment

master of the man who sells. Carrier, despite his dictatorial ways, felt

this disadvantage, no doubt, for his tone was more bland, his manner

less curt. Only young Jacques Lalouet stood by--like a snarling

terrier--still arrogant and still disdainful--the master of the

situation--seeing that neither schemes of vengeance nor those of

corruption had ruffled his self-assurance. He remained beside the door,

ready to pounce on either of the two intruders if they showed the

slightest sign of forgetting the majesty of the great proconsul.

VI

"I told you just now, citizen Martin-Roget," resumed Carrier after a

brief pause, "and I suppose you knew it already, that I am surrounded

with spies."

"Spies, citizen?" murmured Martin-Roget, somewhat taken aback by this

sudden irrelevance. "I didn't know ... I imagine.... Any one in your

position...."

"That's just it," broke in Carrier roughly. "My position is envied by

those who are less competent, less patriotic than I am. Nantes is

swarming with spies. Mine enemies in Paris are working against me. They

want to undermine the confidence which the National Convention reposes

in her accredited representative."

"Preposterous," ejaculated young Lalouet solemnly.

"Well!" rejoined Carrier with a savage oath, "you would have thought

that the Convention would be only too thankful to get a strong man at

the head of affairs in this hotbed of treason and of rebellion. You

would have thought that it was no one's affair to interfere with the

manner in which I administer the powers that have been given me. I

command in Nantes, what? Yet some busybodies up in Paris, some fools,

seem to think that we are going too fast in Nantes. They have become

weaklings over there since Marat has gone. It seems that they have heard

rumours of our flat-bottomed barges and of our fine Republican

marriages: apparently they disapprove of both. They don't realise that

we have to purge an entire city of every kind of rabble--traitors as

well as criminals. They don't understand my aspirations, my ideals," he

added loftily and with a wide, sweeping gesture of his arm, "which is to

make Nantes a model city, to free her from the taint of crime and of

treachery, and...."

An impatient exclamation from young Lalouet once again broke in on

Carrier's rhetoric, and Martin-Roget was able to slip in the query which

had been hovering on his lips:

"And is this relevant, citizen Carrier," he asked, "to the subject which

we have been discussing?"

"It is," replied Carrier drily, "as you will see in a moment. Learn

then, that it has been my purpose for some time to silence mine enemies

by sending to the National Convention a tangible reply to all the

accusations which have been levelled against me. It is my purpose to

explain to the Assembly my reasons for mine actions in Nantes, my

Drownages, my Republican marriages, all the coercive measures which I

have been forced to take in order to purge the city from all that is

undesirable."

"And think you, citizen Carrier," queried Martin-Roget without the

slightest trace of a sneer, "that up in Paris they will understand your

explanations?"

"Yes! they will--they must when they realise that everything that I have

done has been necessitated by the exigencies of public safety."

"They will be slow to realise that," mused the other. "The National

Convention to-day is not what the Constitutional Assembly was in '92. It

has become soft and sentimental. Many there are who will disapprove of

your doings.... Robespierre talks loftily of the dignity of the Republic

... her impartial justice.... The Girondins...."

Carrier interposed with a coarse imprecation. He suddenly leaned

forward, sprawling right across the desk. A shaft of light from between

the damask curtains caught the end of his nose and the tip of his

protruding chin, distorting his face and making it seem grotesque as

well as hideous in the dim light. He appeared excited and inflated with

vanity. He always gloried in the atrocities which he committed, and

though he professed to look with contempt on every one of his

colleagues, he was always glad of an opportunity to display his

inventive powers before them, and to obtain their fulsome eulogy.

"I know well enough what they talk about in Paris," he said, "but I have

an answer--a substantial, definite answer for all their rubbish. Dignity

of the Republic? Bah! Impartial justice? 'Tis force, strength, Spartan

vigour that we want ... and I'll show them.... Listen to my plan,

citizen Martin-Roget, and see how it will work in with yours. My idea is

to collect together all the most disreputable and notorious evil-doers

of this city ... there are plenty in the entrepot at the present moment,

and there are plenty more still at large in the streets of

Nantes--thieves, malefactors, forgers of State bonds, assassins and

women of evil fame ... and to send them in a batch to Paris to appear

before the Committee of Public Safety, whilst I will send to my

colleagues there a letter couched in terms of gentle reproach: 'See!' I

shall say, 'what I have to contend with in Nantes. See! the moral

pestilence that infests the city. These evil-doers are but a few among

the hundreds and thousands of whom I am vainly trying to purge this city

which you have entrusted to my care!' They won't know how to deal with

the rabble," he continued with his harsh strident laugh. "They may send

them to the guillotine wholesale or deport them to Cayenne, and they

will have to give them some semblance of a trial in any case. But they

will have to admit that my severe measures are justified, and in future,

I imagine, they will leave me more severely alone."

"If as you say," urged Martin-Roget, "the National Convention give your

crowd a trial, you will have to produce some witnesses."

"So I will," retorted Carrier cynically. "So I will. Have I not said

that I will round up all the most noted evil-doers in the town? There

are plenty of them I assure you. Lately, my Company Marat have not

greatly troubled about them. After Savenay there was such a crowd of

rebels to deal with, there was no room in our prisons for malefactors as

well. But we can easily lay our hands on a couple of hundred or so, and

members of the municipality or of the district council, or tradespeople

of substance in the city will only be too glad to be rid of them, and

will testify against those that were actually caught red-handed. Not one

but has suffered from the pestilential rabble that has infested the

streets at night, and lately I have been pestered with complaints of all

these night-birds--men and women and...."

Suddenly he paused. He had caught Martin-Roget's feverish gaze fixed

excitedly upon him. Whereupon he leaned back in his chair, threw his

head back and broke into loud and immoderate laughter.

"By the devil and all his myrmidons, citizen!" he said, as soon as he

had recovered his breath, "meseems you have tumbled to my meaning as a

pig into a heap of garbage. Is not ten thousand francs far too small a

sum to pay for such a perfect realisation of all your dreams? We'll send

the Kernogan girl and her father to Paris with the herd, what?... I

promise you that such filth and mud will be thrown on them and on their

precious name that no one will care to bear it for centuries to come."

Martin-Roget of a truth had much ado to control his own excitement. As

the proconsul unfolded his infamous plan, he had at once seen as in a

vision the realisation of all his hopes. What more awful humiliation,

what more dire disgrace could be devised for proud Kernogan and his

daughter than being herded together with the vilest scum that could be

gathered together among the flotsam and jetsam of the population of a

seaport town? What more perfect retaliation could there be for the

ignominious death of Jean Adet the miller?

Martin-Roget leaned forward in his chair. The hideous figure of Carrier

was no longer hideous to him. He saw in that misshapen, gawky form the

very embodiment of the god of vengeance, the wielder of the flail of

retributive justice which was about to strike the guilty at last.

"You are right, citizen Carrier," he said, and his voice was thick and

hoarse with excitement. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin in

his hand. He hammered his nails against his teeth. "That was exactly in

my mind while you spoke."

"I am always right," retorted Carrier loftily. "No one knows better than

I do how to deal with traitors."

"And how is the whole thing to be accomplished? The wench is in my

sister's house at present ... the father is in the Rat Mort...."

"And the Rat Mort is an excellent place.... I know of none better. It is

one of the worst-famed houses in the whole of Nantes ... the

meeting-place of all the vagabonds, the thieves and the cut-throats of

the city."

"Yes! I know that to my cost. My sister's house is next door to it. At

night the street is not safe for decent females to be abroad: and though

there is a platoon of Marats on guard at Le Bouffay close by, they do

nothing to free the neighbourhood of that pest."

"Bah!" retorted Carrier with cynical indifference, "they have more

important quarry to net. Rebels and traitors swarm in Nantes, what?

Commandant Fleury has had no time hitherto to waste on mere cut-throats,

although I had thoughts before now of razing the place to the ground.

Citizen Lamberty has his lodgings on the other side and he does nothing

but complain of the brawls that go on there o' nights. Sure it is that

while a stone of the Rat Mort remains standing all the night-hawks of

Nantes will congregate around it and brew mischief there which is no

good to me and no good to the Republic."

"Yes! I know all about the Rat Mort. I found a night's shelter there

four years ago when...."

"When the ci-devant duc de Kernogan was busy hanging your father--the

miller--for a crime which he never committed. Well then, citizen

Martin-Roget," continued Carrier with one of his hideous leers, "since

you know the Rat Mort so well what say you to your fair and stately

Yvonne de Kernogan and her father being captured there in the company of

the lowest scum of the population of Nantes?"

"You mean ...?" murmured Martin-Roget, who had become livid with

excitement.

"I mean that my Marats have orders to raid some of the haunts of our

Nantese cut-throats, and that they may as well begin to-night and with

the Rat Mort. They will make a descent on the house and a thorough

perquisition, and every person--man, woman and child--found on the

premises will be arrested and sent with a batch of malefactors to Paris,

there to be tried as felons and criminals and deported to Cayenne where

they will, I trust, rot as convicts in that pestilential climate. Think

you," concluded the odious creature with a sneer, "that when put face to

face with the alternative, your Kernogan wench will still refuse to

become the wife of a fine patriot like yourself?"

"I don't know," murmured Martin-Roget. "I ... I...."

"But I do know," broke in Carrier roughly, "that ten thousand francs is

far too little to pay for so brilliant a realisation of all one's hopes.

Ten thousand francs? 'Tis an hundred thousand you should give to show

your gratitude."

Martin-Roget rose and stretched his large, heavy figure to its full

height. He was at great pains to conceal the utter contempt which he

felt for the abominable wretch before whom he was forced to cringe.

"You shall have ten thousand francs, citizen Carrier," he said slowly;

"it is all that I possess in the world now--the last remaining fragment

of a sum of twenty-five thousand francs which I earned and scraped

together for the past four years. You have had five thousand francs

already. And you shall have the other ten. I do not grudge it. If twenty

years of my life were any use to you, I would give you that, in exchange

for the help you are giving me in what means far more than life to me."

The proconsul laughed and shrugged his shoulders--of a truth he thought

citizen Martin-Roget an awful fool.

"Very well then," he said, "we will call the matter settled. I confess

that it amuses me, although remember that I have warned you. With all

these aristos, I believe in the potency of my barges rather than in your

elaborate schemes. Still! it shall never be said that Jean Baptiste

Carrier has left a friend in the lurch."

"I am grateful for your help, citizen Carrier," said Martin-Roget

coldly. Then he added slowly, as if reviewing the situation in his own

mind: "To-night, you say?"

"Yes. To-night. My Marats under the command of citizen Fleury will make

a descent upon the Rat Mort. Those shall be my orders. The place will be

swept clean of every man, woman and child who is inside. If your two

Kernogans are there ... well!" he said with a cynical laugh and a shrug

of his shoulders, "they can be sent up to Paris with the rest of the

herd."

"The dinner bell has gone long ago," here interposed young Lalouet

drily, "the soup will be stone-cold and the chef red-hot with anger."

"You are right, citizen Lalouet," said Carrier as he leaned back in his

chair once more and stretched out his long legs at his ease. "We have

wasted far too much time already over the affairs of a couple of

aristos, who ought to have been at the bottom of the Loire a week ago.

The audience is ended," he added airily, and he made a gesture of

overweening condescension, for all the world like the one wherewith the

_Grand Monarque_ was wont to dismiss his courtiers.

Chauvelin rose too and quietly turned to the door. He had not spoken a

word for the past half-hour, ever since in fact he had put in a

conciliatory word on behalf of his impetuous colleague. Whether he had

taken an active interest in the conversation or not it were impossible

to say. But now, just as he was ready to go, and young Lalouet prepared

to close the doors of the audience chamber, something seemed suddenly to

occur to him and he called somewhat peremptorily to the young man.

"One moment, citizen," he said.

"What is it now?" queried the youth insolently, and from his fine eyes

there shot a glance of contempt on the meagre figure of the once

powerful Terrorist.

"About the Kernogan wench," continued Chauvelin. "She will have to be

conveyed some time before night to the tavern next door. There may be

agencies at work on her behalf...."

"Agencies?" broke in the boy gruffly. "What agencies?"

"Oh!" said Chauvelin vaguely, "we all know that aristos have powerful

friends these days. It will not be over safe to take the girl across

after dark from one house to another ... the alley is badly lighted: the

wench will not go willingly. She might scream and create a disturbance

and draw ... er ... those same unknown agencies to her rescue. I think a

body of Marats should be told off to convey her to the Rat Mort...."

Young Lalouet shrugged his shoulders.

"That's your affair," he said curtly. "Eh, Carrier?" And he glanced over

his shoulder at the proconsul, who at once assented.

Martin-Roget--struck by his colleague's argument--would have interposed,

but Carrier broke in with one of his uncontrolled outbursts of fury.

"Ah ca," he exclaimed, "enough of this now. Citizen Lalouet is right and

I have done enough for you already. If you want the Kernogan wench to be

at the Rat Mort, you must see to getting her there yourself. She is next

door, what? I won't have anything to do with it and I won't have my

Marats implicated in the affair either. Name of a dog! have I not told

you that I am beset with spies? It would of a truth be a climax if I was

denounced as having dragged aristos to a house of ill-fame and then had

them arrested there as malefactors! Now out with you! I have had enough

of this! If your rabble is at the Rat Mort to-night, they shall be

arrested with all the other cut-throats. That is my last word. The rest

is your affair. Lalouet! the door!"

And without another word, and without listening to further protests from

Martin-Roget or Chauvelin, Jacques Lalouet closed the doors of the

audience chamber in their face.

VII

Outside on the landing, Martin-Roget swore a violent, all comprehensive

oath.

"To think that we are under the heel of that skunk!" he said.

"And that in the pursuit of our own ends we have need of his help!"

added Chauvelin with a sigh.

"If it were not for that.... And even now," continued Martin-Roget

moodily, "I doubt what I can do. Yvonne de Kernogan will not follow me

willingly either to the Rat Mort or elsewhere, and if I am not to have

her conveyed by the guard...."

He paused and swore again. His companion's silence appeared to irritate

him.

"What do you advise me to do, citizen Chauvelin?" he asked.

"For the moment," replied Chauvelin imperturbably, "I should advise you

to join me in a walk along the quay as far as Le Bouffay. I have work to

see to inside the building and the north-westerly wind is sure to be of

good counsel."

An angry retort hovered on Martin-Roget's lips, but after a second or

two he succeeded in holding his irascible temper in check. He gave a

quick sigh of impatience.

"Very well," he said curtly. "Let us to Le Bouffay by all means. I have

much to think on, and as you say the north-westerly wind may blow away

the cobwebs which for the nonce do o'ercloud my brain."

And the two men wrapped their mantles closely round their shoulders, for

the air was keen. Then they descended the staircase of the hotel and

went out into the street.