LE BOUFFAY
I
In the centre of the Place the guillotine stood idle--the paint had worn
off her sides--she looked weatherbeaten and forlorn--stern and
forbidding still, but in a kind of sullen loneliness, with the ugly
stains of crimson on her, turned to rust and grime.
The Place itself was deserted, in strange contrast to the bustle and the
movement which characterised it in the days when the death of men, women
and children was a daily spectacle here for the crowd. Then a constant
stream of traffic, of carts and of tumbrils, of soldiers and gaffers
encumbered it in every corner, now a few tumble-down booths set up
against the frontage of the grim edifice--once the stronghold of the
Dukes of Brittany, now little else but a huge prison--a few vendors and
still fewer purchasers of the scanty wares displayed under their ragged
awnings, one or two idlers loafing against the mud-stained walls, one or
two urchins playing in the gutters were the only signs of life.
Martin-Roget with his colleague Chauvelin turned into the Place from the
quay--they walked rapidly and kept their mantles closely wrapped under
their chin, for the afternoon had turned bitterly cold. It was then
close upon five o'clock--a dark, moonless, starless night had set in
with only a suspicion of frost in the damp air; but a blustering
north-westerly wind blowing down the river and tearing round the narrow
streets and the open Place, caused passers-by to muffle themselves,
shivering, yet tighter in their cloaks.
Martin-Roget was talking volubly and excitedly, his tall, broad figure
towering above the slender form of his companion. From time to time he
tossed his mantle aside with an impatient, febrile gesture and then
paused in the middle of the Place, with one hand on the other man's
shoulder, marking a point in his discourse or emphasising his argument
with short staccato sentences and brief, emphatic words.
Chauvelin--placid and impenetrable as usual--listened much and talked
little. He was ready to stand still or to walk along just as his
colleague's mood demanded; in the darkness, and with the collar of a
large mantle pulled tightly up to his ears, it was impossible to guess
by any sign in his face what was going on in his mind.
They were a strange contrast these two men--temperamentally as well as
physically--even though they had so much in common and were both the
direct products of that same social upheaval which was shaking the
archaic dominion of France to its very foundations. Martin-Roget, tall,
broad-shouldered, bull-necked, the typical self-educated peasant, with
square jaw and flat head, with wide bony hands and spatulated fingers:
and Chauvelin--the aristocrat turned demagogue, thin and frail-looking,
bland of manner and suave of speech, with delicate hands and pale,
almost ascetic face.
The one represented all that was most brutish and sensual in this fight
of one caste against the other, the thirst for the other's blood, the
human beast that has been brought to bay through wrongs perpetrated
against it by others and has turned upon its oppressors, lashing out
right and left with blind and lustful fury at the crowd of tyrants that
had kept him in subjection for so long. Whilst Chauvelin was the
personification of the spiritual side of this bloody Revolution--the
spirit of cool and calculating reprisals that would demand an eye for an
eye and see that it got two. The idealist who dreams of the
righteousness of his own cause and the destruction of its enemies, but
who leaves to others the accomplishment of all the carnage and the
bloodshed which his idealism has demanded, and which his reason has
appraised as necessary for the triumph of which he dreams. Chauvelin was
the man of thought and Martin-Roget the man of action. With the one,
revenge and reprisals were selfish desires, the avenging of wrongs done
to himself or to his caste, hatred for those who had injured him or his
kindred. The other had no personal feelings of hatred: he had no
personal wrongs to avenge: his enemies were the enemies of his party,
the erstwhile tyrants who in the past had oppressed an entire people.
Every man, woman or child who was not satisfied with the present Reign
of Terror, who plotted or planned for its overthrow, who was not ready
to see husband, father, wife or child sacrificed for the ultimate
triumph of the Revolution was in Chauvelin's sight a noxious creature,
fit only to be trodden under heel and ground into subjection or
annihilation as a danger to the State.
Martin-Roget was the personification of sans-culottism, of rough manners
and foul speech--he chafed against the conventions which forced him to
wear decent clothes and boots on his feet--he would gladly have seen
every one go about the streets half-naked, unwashed, a living sign of
that downward levelling of castes which he and his friends stood for,
and for which they had fought and striven and committed every crime
which human passions let loose could invent. Chauvelin, on the other
hand, was one of those who wore fine linen and buckled shoes and whose
hands were delicately washed and perfumed whilst they signed decrees
which sent hundreds of women and children to a violent and cruel death.
The one trod in the paths of Danton: the other followed in the footsteps
of Robespierre.
II
Together the two men mounted the outside staircase which leads up past
the lodge of the concierge and through the clerk's office to the
interior of the stronghold. Outside the monumental doors they had to
wait a moment or two while the clerk examined their permits to enter.
"Will you come into my office with me?" asked Chauvelin of his
companion; "I have a word or two to add to my report for the Paris
courier to-night. I won't be long."
"You are still in touch with the Committee of Public Safety then?" asked
Martin-Roget.
"Always," replied the other curtly.
Martin-Roget threw a quick, suspicious glance on his companion. Darkness
and the broad brim of his sugar-loaf hat effectually concealed even the
outlines of Chauvelin's face, and Martin-Roget fell to musing over one
or two things which Carrier had blurted out awhile ago. The whole of
France was overrun with spies these days--every one was under suspicion,
every one had to be on his guard. Every word was overheard, every glance
seen, every sign noted.
What was this man Chauvelin doing here in Nantes? What reports did he
send up to Paris by special courier? He, the miserable failure who had
ceased to count was nevertheless in constant touch with that awful
Committee of Public Safety which was wont to strike at all times and
unexpectedly in the dark. Martin-Roget shivered beneath his mantle. For
the first time since his schemes of vengeance had wholly absorbed his
mind he regretted the freedom and safety which he had enjoyed in
England, and he marvelled if the miserable game which he was playing
would be worth the winning in the end. Nevertheless he had followed
Chauvelin without comment. The man appeared to exercise a fascination
over him--a kind of subtle power, which emanated from his small shrunken
figure, from his pale keen eyes and his well-modulated, suave mode of
speech.
III
The clerk had handed the two men their permits back. They were allowed
to pass through the gates.
In the hall some half-dozen men were nominally on guard--nominally,
because discipline was not over strict these days, and the men sat or
lolled about the place; two of them were intent on a game of dominoes,
another was watching them, whilst the other three were settling some
sort of quarrel among themselves which necessitated vigorous and
emphatic gestures and the copious use of expletives. One man, who
appeared to be in command, divided his time impartially between the
domino-players and those who were quarrelling.
The vast place was insufficiently lighted by a chandelier which hung
from the ceiling and a couple of small oil-lamps placed in the circular
niches in the wall opposite the front door.
No one took any notice of Martin-Roget or of Chauvelin as they crossed
the hall, and presently the latter pushed open a door on the left of
the main gates and held it open for his colleague to pass through.
"You are sure that I shall not be disturbing you?" queried Martin-Roget.
"Quite sure," replied the other curtly. "And there is something which I
must say to you ... where I know that I shall not be overheard."
Then he followed Martin-Roget into the room and closed the door behind
him. The room was scantily furnished with a square deal table in the
centre, two or three chairs, a broken-down bureau leaning against one
wall and an iron stove wherein a meagre fire sent a stream of malodorous
smoke through sundry cracks in its chimney-pipe. From the ceiling there
hung an oil-lamp the light of which was thrown down upon the table, by a
large green shade made of cardboard.
Chauvelin drew a chair to the bureau and sat down; he pointed to another
and Martin-Roget took a seat beside the table. He felt restless and
excited--his nerves all on the jar: his colleague's calm, sardonic
glance acted as a further irritant to his temper.
"What is it that you wished to say to me, citizen Chauvelin?" he asked
at last.
"Just a word, citizen," replied the other in his quiet urbane manner. "I
have accompanied you faithfully on your journey to England: I have
placed my feeble powers at your disposal: awhile ago I stood between you
and the proconsul's wrath. This, I think, has earned me the right of
asking what you intend to do."
"I don't know about the right," retorted Martin-Roget gruffly, "but I
don't mind telling you. As you remarked awhile ago the North-West wind
is wont to be of good counsel. I have thought the matter over whilst I
walked with you along the quay and I have decided to act on Carrier's
suggestion. Our eminent proconsul said just now that it was the duty of
every true patriot to marry an aristo, an he be free and Chance puts a
comely wench in his way. I mean," he added with a cynical laugh, "to act
on that advice and marry Yvonne de Kernogan ... if I can."
"She has refused you up to now?"
"Yes ... up to now."
"You have threatened her--and her father?"
"Yes--both. Not only with death but with shame."
"And still she refuses?"
"Apparently," said Martin-Roget with ever-growing irritation.
"It is often difficult," rejoined Chauvelin meditatively, "to compel
these aristos. They are obstinate...."
"Oh! don't forget that I am in a position now to bring additional
pressure on the wench. That lout Carrier has splendid ideas--a brute,
what? but clever and full of resource. That suggestion of his about the
Rat Mort is splendid...."
"You mean to try and act on it?"
"Of course I do," said Martin-Roget roughly. "I am going over presently
to my sister's house to see the Kernogan wench again, and to have
another talk with her. Then if she still refuses, if she still chooses
to scorn the honourable position which I offer her, I shall act on
Carrier's suggestion. It will be at the Rat Mort to-night that she and I
will have our final interview, and there when I dangle the prospect of
Cayenne and the convict's brand before her, she may not prove so
obdurate as she has been up to now."
"H'm! That is as may be," was Chauvelin's dry comment. "Personally I am
inclined to agree with Carrier. Death, swift and sure--the Loire or the
guillotine--is the best that has yet been invented for traitors and
aristos. But we won't discuss that again. I know your feelings in the
matter and in a measure I respect them. But if you will allow me I would
like to be present at your interview with the _soi-disant_ Lady Anthony
Dewhurst. I won't disturb you and I won't say a word ... but there is
something I would like to make sure of...."
"What is that?"
"Whether the wench has any hopes ..." said Chauvelin slowly, "whether
she has received a message or has any premonition ... whether in short
she thinks that outside agencies are at work on her behalf."
"Tshaw!" exclaimed Martin-Roget impatiently, "you are still harping on
that Scarlet Pimpernel idea."
"I am," retorted the other drily.
"As you please. But understand, citizen Chauvelin, that I will not allow
you to interfere with my plans, whilst you go off on one of those
wild-goose chases which have already twice brought you into disrepute."
"I will not interfere with your plans, citizen," rejoined Chauvelin with
unwonted gentleness, "but let me in my turn impress one thing upon you,
and that is that unless you are as wary as the serpent, as cunning as
the fox, all your precious plans will be upset by that interfering
Englishman whom you choose to disregard."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I know him--to my cost--and you do not. But you will, an I
am not gravely mistaken, make acquaintance with him ere your great
adventure with these Kernogan people is successfully at an end. Believe
me, citizen Martin-Roget," he added impressively, "you would have been
far wiser to accept Carrier's suggestion and let him fling that rabble
into the Loire for you."
"Pshaw! you are not childish enough to imagine, citizen Chauvelin, that
your Englishman can spirit away that wench from under my sister's eyes?
Do you know what my sister suffered at the hands of the Kernogans? Do
you think that she is like to forget my father's ignominious death any
more than I am? And she mourns a lover as well as a father--she mourns
her youth, her happiness, the mother whom she worshipped. Think you a
better gaoler could be found anywhere? And there are friends of
mine--lads of our own village, men who hate the Kernogans as bitterly as
I do myself--who are only too ready to lend Louise a hand in case of
violence. And after that--suppose your magnificent Scarlet Pimpernel
succeeded in hoodwinking my sister and in evading the vigilance of a
score of determined village lads, who would sooner die one by one than
see the Kernogan escape--suppose all that, I say, there would still be
the guard at every city gate to challenge. No! no! it couldn't be done,
citizen Chauvelin," he added with a complacent laugh. "Your Englishman
would need the help of a legion of angels, what? to get the wench out of
Nantes this time."
Chauvelin made no comment on his colleague's impassioned harangue.
Memory had taken him back to that one day in September in Boulogne when
he too had set one prisoner to guard a precious hostage: it brought back
to his mind a vision of a strangely picturesque figure as it appeared to
him in the window-embrasure of the old castle-hall:[1] it brought back
to his ears the echo of that quaint, irresponsible laughter, of that
lazy, drawling speech, of all that had acted as an irritant on his
nerves ere he found himself baffled, foiled, eating out his heart with
vain reproach at his own folly.
"I see you are unconvinced, citizen Martin-Roget," he said quietly, "and
I know that it is the fashion nowadays among young politicians to sneer
at Chauvelin--the living embodiment of failure. But let me just add
this. When you and I talked matters over together at the Bottom Inn, in
the wilds of Somersetshire, I warned you that not only was your identity
known to the man who calls himself the Scarlet Pimpernel, but also that
he knew every one of your plans with regard to the Kernogan wench and
her father. You laughed at me then ... do you remember?... you shrugged
your shoulders and jeered at what you call my far-fetched ideas ... just
as you do now. Well! will you let me remind you of what happened within
four-and-twenty hours of that warning which you chose to disregard? ...
Yvonne de Kernogan was married to Lord Anthony Dewhurst and...."
"I know all that, man," broke in Martin-Roget impatiently. "It was all a
mere coincidence ... the marriage must have been planned long before
that ... your Scarlet Pimpernel could not possibly have had anything to
do with it."
"Perhaps not," rejoined Chauvelin drily. "But mark what has happened
since. Just now when we crossed the Place I saw in the distance a figure
flitting past--the gorgeous figure of an exquisite who of a surety is a
stranger in Nantes: and carried upon the wings of the north-westerly
wind there came to me the sound of a voice which, of late, I have only
heard in my dreams. On my soul, citizen Martin-Roget," he added with
earnest emphasis, "I assure you that the Scarlet Pimpernel is in Nantes
at the present moment, that he is scheming, plotting, planning to
rescue the Kernogan wench out of your clutches. He will not leave her in
your power, on this I would stake my life; she is the wife of one of his
dearest friends: he will not abandon her, not while he keeps that
resourceful head of his on his shoulders. Unless you are desperately
careful he will outwit you; of that I am as convinced as that I am
alive."
"Bah! you have been dreaming, citizen Chauvelin," rejoined Martin-Roget
with a laugh and shrugging his broad shoulders; "your mysterious
Englishman in Nantes? Why man! the navigation of the Loire has been
totally prohibited these last fourteen days--no carriage, van or vehicle
of any kind is allowed to enter the city--no man, woman or child to pass
the barriers without special permit signed either by the proconsul
himself or by Fleury the captain of the Marats. Why! even I, when I
brought the Kernogans in overland from Le Croisic, I was detained two
hours outside Nantes while my papers were sent in to Carrier for
inspection. You know that, you were with me."
"I know it," replied Chauvelin drily, "and yet...."
He paused, with one claw-like finger held erect to demand attention. The
door of the small room in which they sat gave on the big hall where the
half-dozen Marats were stationed, the single window at right angles to
the door looked out upon the Place below. It was from there that
suddenly there came the sound of a loud peal of laughter--quaint and
merry--somewhat inane and affected, and at the sound Chauvelin's pale
face took on the hue of ashes and even Martin-Roget felt a strange
sensation of cold creeping down his spine.
For a few seconds the two men remained quite still, as if a spell had
been cast over them through that light-hearted peal of rippling
laughter. Then equally suddenly the younger man shook himself free of
the spell; with a few long strides he was already at the door and out in
the vast hall; Chauvelin following closely on his heels.
IV
The clock in the tower of the edifice was even then striking five. The
Marats in the hall looked up with lazy indifference at the two men who
had come rushing out in such an abrupt and excited manner.
"Any stranger been through here?" queried Chauvelin peremptorily of the
sergeant in command.
"No," replied the latter curtly. "How could they, without a permit?"
He shrugged his shoulders and the men resumed their game and their
argument. Martin-Roget would have parleyed with them but Chauvelin had
already crossed the hall and was striding past the clerk's office and
the lodge of the concierge out toward the open. Martin-Roget, after a
moment's hesitation, followed him.
The Place was wrapped in gloom. From the platform of the guillotine an
oil-lamp hoisted on a post threw a small circle of light around. Small
pieces of tallow candle, set in pewter sconces, glimmered feebly under
the awnings of the booths, and there was a street-lamp affixed to the
wall of the old chateau immediately below the parapet of the staircase,
and others at the angles of the Rue de la Monnaye and the narrow Ruelle
des Jacobins.
Chauvelin's keen eyes tried to pierce the surrounding darkness. He
leaned over the parapet and peered into the remote angles of the
building and round the booths below him.
There were a few people on the Place, some walking rapidly across from
one end to the other, intent on business, others pausing in order to
make purchases at the booths. Up and down the steps of the guillotine a
group of street urchins were playing hide-and-seek. Round the angles of
the narrow streets the vague figures of passers-by flitted to and fro,
now easily discernible in the light of the street lanthorns, anon
swallowed up again in the darkness beyond. Whilst immediately below the
parapet two or three men of the Company Marat were lounging against the
walls. Their red bonnets showed up clearly in the flickering light of
the street lamps, as did their bare shins and the polished points of
their sabots. But of an elegant, picturesque figure such as Chauvelin
had described awhile ago there was not a sign.
Martin-Roget leaned over the parapet and called peremptorily:
"Hey there! citizens of the Company Marat!"
One of the red-capped men looked up leisurely.
"Your desire, citizen?" he queried with insolent deliberation, for they
were mighty men, this bodyguard of the great proconsul, his spies and
tools in the awesome work of frightfulness which he carried on so
ruthlessly.
"Is that you Paul Friche?" queried Martin-Roget in response.
"At your service, citizen," came the glib reply, delivered not without
mock deference.
"Then come up here. I wish to speak with you."
"I can't leave my post, nor can my mates," retorted the man who had
answered to the name of Paul Friche. "Come down, citizen, an you desire
to speak with us."
Martin-Roget swore lustily.
"The insolence of that rabble ..." he murmured.
"Hush! I'll go," interposed Chauvelin quickly. "Do you know that man
Friche? Is he trustworthy?"
"Yes, I know him. As for being trustworthy ..." added Martin-Roget with
a shrug of the shoulders. "He is a corporal in the Marats and high in
favour with commandant Fleury."
Every second was of value, and Chauvelin was not the man to waste time
in useless parleyings. He ran down the stairs at the foot of which one
of the red-capped gentry deigned to speak with him.
"Have you seen any strangers across the Place just now?" he queried in a
whisper.
"Yes," replied the man Friche. "Two!"
Then he spat upon the ground and added spitefully: "Aristos, what? In
fine clothes--like yourself, citizen...."
"Which way did they go?"
"Down the Ruelle des Jacobins."
"When?"
"Two minutes ago."
"Why did you not follow them?... Aristos and...."
"I would have followed," retorted Paul Friche with studied insolence;
"'twas you called me away from my duty."
"After them then!" urged Chauvelin peremptorily. "They cannot have gone
far. They are English spies, and remember, citizen, that there's a
reward for their apprehension."
The man grunted an eager assent. The word "reward" had fired his zeal.
In a trice he had called to his mates and the three Marats soon sped
across the Place and down the Ruelle des Jacobins where the surrounding
gloom quickly swallowed them up.
Chauvelin watched them till they were out of sight, then he rejoined his
colleague on the landing at the top of the stairs. For a second or two
longer the click of the men's sabots upon the stones resounded on the
adjoining streets and across the Place, and suddenly that same quaint,
merry, somewhat inane laugh woke the echoes of the grim buildings around
and caused many a head to turn inquiringly, marvelling who it could be
that had the heart to laugh these days in the streets of Nantes.
V
Five minutes or so later the three Marats could vaguely be seen
recrossing the Place and making their way back to Le Bouffay, where
Martin-Roget and Chauvelin still stood on the top of the stairs excited
and expectant. At sight of the men Chauvelin ran down the steps to meet
them.
"Well?" he queried in an eager whisper.
"We never saw them," replied Paul Friche gruffly, "though we could hear
them clearly enough, talking, laughing and walking very rapidly toward
the quay. Then suddenly the earth or the river swallowed them up. We saw
and heard nothing more."
Chauvelin swore and a curious hissing sound escaped his thin lips.
"Don't be too disappointed, citizen," added the man with a coarse laugh,
"my mate picked this up at the corner of the Ruelle, when, I fancy, we
were pressing the aristos pretty closely."
He held out a small bundle of papers tied together with a piece of red
ribbon: the bundle had evidently rolled in the mud, for the papers were
covered with grime. Chauvelin's thin, claw-like fingers had at once
closed over them.
"You must give me back those papers, citizen," said the man, "they are
my booty. I can only give them up to citizen-captain Fleury."
"I'll give them to the citizen-captain myself," retorted Chauvelin. "For
the moment you had best not leave your post of duty," he added more
peremptorily, seeing that the man made as he would follow him.
"I take orders from no one except ..." protested the man gruffly.
"You will take them from me now," broke in Chauvelin with a sudden
assumption of command and authority which sat with weird strangeness
upon his thin shrunken figure. "Go back to your post at once, ere I
lodge a complaint against you for neglect of duty, with the citizen
proconsul."
He turned on his heel and, without paying further heed to the man and
his mutterings, he remounted the stone stairs.
"No success, I suppose?" queried Martin-Roget.
"None," replied Chauvelin curtly.
He had the packet of papers tightly clasped in his hand. He was debating
in his mind whether he would speak of them to his colleague or not.
"What did Friche say?" asked the latter impatiently.
"Oh! very little. He and his mates caught sight of the strangers and
followed them as far as the quays. But they were walking very fast and
suddenly the Marats lost their trace in the darkness. It seemed,
according to Paul Friche, as if the earth or the night had swallowed
them up."
"And was that all?"
"Yes. That was all."
"I wonder," added Martin-Roget with a light laugh and a careless shrug
of his wide shoulders, "I wonder if you and I, citizen Chauvelin--and
Paul Friche too for that matter--have been the victims of our nerves."
"I wonder," assented Chauvelin drily. And--quite quietly--he slipped the
packet of papers in the pocket of his coat.
"Then we may as well adjourn. There is nothing else you wish to say to
me about that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel of yours?"
"No--nothing."
"And you still would like to hear what the Kernogan wench will say and
see how she will look when I put my final proposal before her?"
"If you will allow me."
"Then come," said Martin-Roget. "My sister's house is close by."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: This adventure is recorded in _The Elusive Pimpernel_.]