Robespierre had quietly waited the while. He was in no hurry: being a
night-bird of very pronounced tastes, he was quite ready to sit here
until the small hours of the morning watching Citizen Chauvelin mentally
writhing in the throes of recollections of the past few months.
There was nothing that delighted the sea-green Incorruptible quite so
much as the aspect of a man struggling with a hopeless situation and
feeling a net of intrigue drawing gradually tighter and tighter around
him.
Even now, when he saw Chauvelin's smooth forehead wrinkled into an
anxious frown, and his thin hand nervously clutched upon the table,
Robespierre heaved a pleasurable sigh, leaned back in his chair, and
said with an amiable smile:
“You do agree with me, then, Citizen, that the situation has become
intolerable?”
Then as Chauvelin did not reply, he continued, speaking more sharply:
“And how terribly galling it all is, when we could have had that man
under the guillotine by now, if you had not blundered so terribly last
year.”
His voice had become hard and trenchant like that knife to which he was
so ready to make constant allusion. But Chauvelin still remained silent.
There was really nothing that he could say.
“Citizen Chauvelin, how you must hate that man!” exclaimed Robespierre
at last.
Then only did Chauvelin break the silence which up to now he had
appeared to have forced himself to keep.
“I do!” he said with unmistakable fervour.
“Then why do you not make an effort to retrieve the blunders of last
year?” queried Robespierre blandly. “The Republic has been unusually
patient and long-suffering with you, Citizen Chauvelin. She has taken
your many services and well-known patriotism into consideration. But
you know,” he added significantly, “that she has no use for worthless
tools.”
Then as Chauvelin seemed to have relapsed into sullen silence, he
continued with his original ill-omened blandness:
“Ma foi! Citizen Chauvelin, were I standing in your buckled shoes, I
would not lose another hour in trying to avenge mine own humiliation!”
“Have I ever had a chance?” burst out Chauvelin with ill-suppressed
vehemence. “What can I do single-handed? Since war has been declared
I cannot go to England unless the Government will find some official
reason for my doing so. There is much grumbling and wrath over here, and
when that damned Scarlet Pimpernel League has been at work, when a score
or so of valuable prizes have been snatched from under the very knife
of the guillotine, then, there is much gnashing of teeth and useless
cursings, but nothing serious or definite is done to smother those
accursed English flies which come buzzing about our ears.”
“Nay! you forget, Citizen Chauvelin,” retorted Robespierre, “that we of
the Committee of Public Safety are far more helpless than you. You
know the language of these people, we don't. You know their manners and
customs, their ways of thought, the methods they are likely to employ:
we know none of these things. You have seen and spoken to men in England
who are members of that damned League. You have seen the man who is its
leader. We have not.”
He leant forward on the table and looked more searchingly at the thin,
pallid face before him.
“If you named that leader to me now, if you described him, we could
go to work more easily. You could name him, and you would, Citizen
Chauvelin.”
“I cannot,” retorted Chauvelin doggedly.
“Ah! but I think you could. But there! I do not blame your silence. You
would wish to reap the reward of your own victory, to be the instrument
of your own revenge. Passions! I think it natural! But in the name of
your own safety, Citizen, do not be too greedy with your secret. If the
man is known to you, find him again, find him, lure him to France! We
want him--the people want him! And if the people do not get what they
want, they will turn on those who have withheld their prey.”
“I understand, Citizen, that your own safety and that of your government
is involved in this renewed attempt to capture the Scarlet Pimpernel,”
retorted Chauvelin drily.
“And your head, Citizen Chauvelin,” concluded Robespierre.
“Nay! I know that well enough, and you may believe me, and you will,
Citizen, when I say that I care but little about that. The question is,
if I am to lure that man to France what will you and your government do
to help me?”
“Everything,” replied Robespierre, “provided you have a definite plan
and a definite purpose.
“I have both. But I must go to England in, at least, a semi-official
capacity. I can do nothing if I am to hide in disguise in out-of-the-way
corners.”
“That is easily done. There has been some talk with the British
authorities anent the security and welfare of peaceful French subjects
settled in England. After a good deal of correspondence they have
suggested our sending a semi-official representative over there to look
after the interests of our own people commercially and financially.
We can easily send you over in that capacity if it would suit your
purpose.”
“Admirably. I have only need of a cloak. That one will do as well as
another.”
“Is that all?”
“Not quite. I have several plans in my head, and I must know that I
am fully trusted. Above all, I must have power--decisive, absolute,
illimitable power.”
There was nothing of the weakling about this small, sable-clad man, who
looked the redoubtable Jacobin leader straight in the face and brought a
firm fist resolutely down upon the table before him. Robespierre paused
a while ere he replied; he was eying the other man keenly, trying to
read if behind that earnest, frowning brow there did not lurk some
selfish, ulterior motive along with that demand for absolute power.
But Chauvelin did not flinch beneath that gaze which could make every
cheek in France blanch with unnamed terror, and after that slight moment
of hesitation Robespierre said quietly:
“You shall have the complete power of a military dictator in every town
or borough of France which you may visit. The Revolutionary Government
shall create you, before you start for England, Supreme Head of all the
Sub-Committees of Public Safety. This will mean that in the name of the
safety of the Republic every order given by you, of whatsoever nature
it might be, must be obeyed implicitly under pain of an arraignment for
treason.”
Chauvelin sighed a quick, sharp sigh of intense satisfaction, which he
did not even attempt to disguise before Robespierre.
“I shall want agents,” he said, “or shall we say spies? and, of course,
money.”
“You shall have both. We keep a very efficient secret service in
England and they do a great deal of good over there. There is much
dissatisfaction in their Midland counties--you remember the Birmingham
riots? They were chiefly the work of our own spies. Then you know
Candeille, the actress? She had found her way among some of those
circles in London who have what they call liberal tendencies. I believe
they are called Whigs. Funny name, isn't it? It means perruque, I think.
Candeille has given charity performances in aid of our Paris poor,
in one or two of these Whig clubs, and incidentally she has been very
useful to us.”
“A woman is always useful in such cases. I shall seek out the Citizeness
Candeille.”
“And if she renders you useful assistance, I think I can offer her
what should prove a tempting prize. Women are so vain!” he added,
contemplating with rapt attention the enamel-like polish on his
finger-nails. “There is a vacancy in the Maison Moliere. Or--what might
prove more attractive still--in connection with the proposed National
fete, and the new religion for the people, we have not yet chosen
a Goddess of Reason. That should appeal to any feminine mind. The
impersonation of a goddess, with processions, pageants, and the rest...
Great importance and prominence given to one personality.... What
say you, Citizen? If you really have need of a woman for the furtherance
of your plans, you have that at your disposal which may enhance her
zeal.”
“I thank you, Citizen,” rejoined Chauvelin calmly. “I always entertained
a hope that some day the Revolutionary Government would call again on
my services. I admit that I failed last year. The Englishman is
resourceful. He has wits and he is very rich. He would not have
succeeded, I think, but for his money--and corruption and bribery are
rife in Paris and on our coasts. He slipped through my fingers at the
very moment when I thought that I held him most securely. I do admit all
that, but I am prepared to redeem my failure of last year, and... there
is nothing more to discuss.--I am ready to start.”
He looked round for his cloak and hat, and quietly readjusted the set
of his neck-tie. But Robespierre detained him a while longer: that
born mountebank, born torturer of the souls of men, had not gloated
sufficiently yet on the agony of mind of this fellow-man.
Chauvelin had always been trusted and respected. His services in
connection with the foreign affairs of the Revolutionary Government had
been invaluable, both before and since the beginning of the European
War. At one time he formed part of that merciless decemvirate
which--with Robespierre at its head--meant to govern France by laws of
bloodshed and of unparalleled ferocity.
But the sea-green Incorruptible had since tired of him, then had
endeavoured to push him on one side, for Chauvelin was keen and clever,
and, moreover, he possessed all those qualities of selfless patriotism
which were so conspicuously lacking in Robespierre.
His failure in bringing that interfering Scarlet Pimpernel to justice
and the guillotine had completed Chauvelin's downfall. Though not
otherwise molested, he had been left to moulder in obscurity during this
past year. He would soon enough have been completely forgotten.
Now he was not only to be given one more chance to regain public favour,
but he had demanded powers which in consideration of the aim in
view, Robespierre himself could not refuse to grant him. But the
Incorruptible, ever envious and jealous, would not allow him to exult
too soon.
With characteristic blandness he seemed to be entering into all
Chauvelin's schemes, to be helping in every way he could, for there
was something at the back of his mind which he meant to say to the
ex-ambassador, before the latter took his leave: something which
would show him that he was but on trial once again, and which would
demonstrate to him with perfect clearness that over him there hovered
the all-powerful hand of a master.
“You have but to name the sum you want, Citizen Chauvelin,” said the
Incorruptible, with an encouraging smile, “the government will not stint
you, and you shall not fail for lack of authority or for lack of funds.”
“It is pleasant to hear that the government has such uncounted wealth,”
remarked Chauvelin with dry sarcasm.
“Oh! the last few weeks have been very profitable,” retorted
Robespierre; “we have confiscated money and jewels from emigrant
royalists to the tune of several million francs. You remember the
traitor Juliette Marny, who escape to England lately? Well! her mother's
jewels and quite a good deal of gold were discovered by one of our most
able spies to be under the care of a certain Abbe Foucquet, a calotin
from Boulogne--devoted to the family, so it seems.”
“Yes?” queried Chauvelin indifferently.
“Our men seized the jewels and gold, that is all. We don't know yet what
we mean to do with the priest. The fisherfolk of Boulogne like him, and
we can lay our hands on him at any time, if we want his old head for
the guillotine. But the jewels were worth having. There's a historic
necklace worth half a million at least.”
“Could I have it?” asked Chauvelin.
Robespierre laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“You said it belonged to the Marny family,” continued the ex-ambassador.
“Juliette Marny is in England. I might meet her. I cannot tell what may
happen: but I feel that the historic necklace might prove useful. Just
as you please,” he added with renewed indifference. “It was a thought
that flashed through my mind when you spoke--nothing more.”
“And to show you how thoroughly the government trusts you, Citizen
Chauvelin,” replied Robespierre with perfect urbanity, “I will myself
direct that the Marny necklace be placed unreservedly in your hands; and
a sum of fifty thousand francs for your expenses in England. You see,”
he added blandly, “we give you no excuse for a second failure.”
“I need none,” retorted Chauvelin drily, as he finally rose from his
seat, with a sigh of satisfaction that this interview was ended at last.
But Robespierre too had risen, and pushing his chair aside he took
a step or two towards Chauvelin. He was a much taller man than the
ex-ambassador. Spare and gaunt, he had a very upright bearing, and
in the uncertain light of the candle he seemed to tower strangely
and weirdly above the other man: the pale hue of his coat, his
light-coloured hair, the whiteness of his linen, all helped to give to
his appearance at that moment a curious spectral effect.
Chauvelin somehow felt an unpleasant shiver running down his spine as
Robespierre, perfectly urbane and gentle in his manner, placed a long,
bony hand upon his shoulder.
“Citizen Chauvelin,” said the Incorruptible, with some degree of
dignified solemnity, “meseems that we very quickly understood one
another this evening. Your own conscience, no doubt, gave you a
premonition of what the purport of my summons to you would be. You say
that you always hoped the Revolutionary Government would give you one
great chance to redeem your failure of last year. I, for one, always
intended that you should have that chance, for I saw, perhaps, just
a little deeper into your heart than my colleagues. I saw not only
enthusiasm for the cause of the People of France, not only abhorrence
for the enemy of your country, I saw a purely personal and deadly hate
of an individual man--the unknown and mysterious Englishman who proved
too clever for you last year. And because I believe that hatred will
prove sharper and more far-seeing than selfless patriotism, therefore I
urged the Committee of Public Safety to allow you to work out your own
revenge, and thereby to serve your country more effectually than any
other--perhaps more pure-minded patriot would do. You go to England
well-provided with all that is necessary for the success of your plans,
for the accomplishment of your own personal vengeance. The Revolutionary
Government will help you with money, passports, safe conducts; it
places its spies and agents at your disposal. It gives you practically
unlimited power, wherever you may go. It will not enquire into your
motives, nor yet your means, so long as these lead to success. But
private vengeance or patriotism, whatever may actuate you, we here in
France demand you deliver into our hands the man who is known in two
countries as the Scarlet Pimpernel! We want him alive if possible,
or dead if it must be so, and we want as many of his henchmen as will
follow him to the guillotine. Get them to France, and we'll know how to
deal with them, and let the whole of Europe be damned.”
He paused for a while, his hand still resting on Chauvelin's shoulder,
his pale green eyes holding those of the other man as if in a trance.
But Chauvelin neither stirred nor spoke. His triumph left him quite
calm; his fertile brain was already busy with his plans. There was no
room for fear in his heart, and it was without the slightest tremor that
he waited for the conclusion of Robespierre's oration.
“Perhaps, Citizen Chauvelin,” said the latter at last, “you have already
guessed what there is left for me to say. But lest there should remain
in your mind one faint glimmer of doubt or of hope, let me tell you
this. The Revolutionary Government gives you this chance of redeeming
your failure, but this one only; if you fail again, your outraged
country will know neither pardon nor mercy. Whether you return to France
or remain in England, whether you travel North, South, East or West,
cross the Oceans, or traverse the Alps, the hand of an avenging People
will be upon you. Your second failure will be punished by death,
wherever you may be, either by the guillotine, if you are in France, or
if you seek refuge elsewhere, then by the hand of an assassin.
“Look to it, Citizen Chauvelin! for there will be no escape this time,
not even if the mightiest tyrant on earth tried to protect you, not even
if you succeeded in building up an empire and placing yourself upon a
throne.”
His thin, strident voice echoed weirdly in the small, close boudoir.
Chauvelin made no reply. There was nothing that he could say. All that
Robespierre had put so emphatically before him, he had fully realised,
even whilst he was forming his most daring plans.
It was an “either--or” this time, uttered to HIM now. He thought again
of Marguerite Blakeney, and the terrible alternative he had put before
HER less than a year ago.
Well! he was prepared to take the risk. He would not fail again. He was
going to England under more favourable conditions this time. He knew who
the man was, whom he was bidden to lure to France and to death.
And he returned Robespierre's threatening gaze boldly and unflinchingly;
then he prepared to go. He took up his hat and cloak, opened the door
and peered for a moment into the dark corridor, wherein, in the far
distance, the steps of a solitary sentinel could be faintly heard: he
put on his hat, turned to look once more into the room where Robespierre
stood quietly watching him, and went his way.