The day that Citizen Chauvelin's letter was received by the members of
the Committee of Public Safety was indeed one of great rejoicing.
The Moniteur tells us that in the Seance of September 22nd, 1793, or
Vendemiaire 1st of the Year I. it was decreed that sixty prisoners,
not absolutely proved guilty of treason against the Republic--only
suspected--were to be set free.
Sixty!... at the mere news of the possible capture of the Scarlet
Pimpernel.
The Committee was inclined to be magnanimous. Ferocity yielded for the
moment to the elusive joy of anticipatory triumph.
A glorious prize was about to fall into the hands of those who had the
welfare of the people at heart.
Robespierre and his decemvirs rejoiced, and sixty persons had cause
to rejoice with them. So be it! There were plans evolved already as to
national fetes and wholesale pardons when that impudent and meddlesome
Englishman at last got his deserts.
Wholesale pardons which could easily be rescinded afterwards. Even
with those sixty it was a mere respite. Those of le Salut Public only
loosened their hold for a while, were nobly magnanimous for a day, quite
prepared to be doubly ferocious the next.
In the meanwhile let us heartily rejoice!
The Scarlet Pimpernel is in France or will be very soon, and on an
appointed day he will present himself conveniently to the soldiers of
the Republic for capture and for subsequent guillotine. England is at
war with us, there is nothing therefore further to fear from her. We
might hang every Englishman we can lay hands on, and England could do no
more than she is doing at the present moment: bombard our ports, bluster
and threaten, join hands with Flanders, and Austria and Sardinia, and
the devil if she choose.
Allons! vogue la galere! The Scarlet Pimpernel is perhaps on our shores
at this very moment! Our most stinging, most irritating foe is about to
be delivered into our hands.
Citizen Chauvelin's letter is very categorical:
“I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre, and to the Members of the
Revolutionary Government who have entrusted me with the delicate
mission...”
Robespierre's sensuous lips curl into a sarcastic smile. Citizen
Chauvelin's pen was ever florid in its style: “entrusted me with the
delicate mission,” is hardly the way to describe an order given under
penalty of death.
But let it pass.
“... that four days from this date, at one hour after sunset, the man
who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel will be on the
southern ramparts of Boulogne, at the extreme southern corner of the
town.”
“Four days from this date...” and Citizen Chauvelin's letter is dated
the nineteenth of September, 1793.
“Too much of an aristocrat--Monsieur le Marquis Chauvelin...” sneers
Merlin, the Jacobin. “He does not know that all good citizens had called
that date the 28th Fructidor, Year I. of the Republic.”
“No matter,” retorts Robespierre with impatient frigidity, “whatever we
may call the day it was forty-eight hours ago, and in forty-eight hours
more that damned Englishman will have run his head into a noose, from
which, an I mistake not, he'll not find it easy to extricate himself.”
“And you believe in Citizen Chauvelin's assertion,” commented Danton
with a lazy shrug of the shoulders.
“Only because he asks for help from us,” quoth Robespierre drily; “he is
sure that the man will be there, but not sure if he can tackle him.”
But many were inclined to think that Chauvelin's letter was an idle
boast. They knew nothing of the circumstances which had caused that
letter to be written: they could not conjecture how it was that the
ex-ambassador could be so precise in naming the day and hour when the
enemy of France would be at the mercy of those whom he had outraged and
flouted.
Nevertheless Citizen Chauvelin asks for help, and help must not be
denied him. There must be no shadow of blame upon the actions of the
Committee of Public Safety.
Chauvelin had been weak once, had allowed the prize to slip through his
fingers; it must not occur again. He has a wonderful head for devising
plans, but he needs a powerful hand to aid him, so that he may not fail
again.
Collot d'Herbois, just home from Lyons and Tours, is the right man in
an emergency like this. Citizen Collot is full of ideas; the inventor
of the “Noyades” is sure to find a means of converting Boulogne into one
gigantic prison out of which the mysterious English adventurer will find
it impossible to escape.
And whilst the deliberations go on, whilst this committee of butchers
are busy slaughtering in imagination the game they have not yet
succeeded in bringing down, there comes another messenger from Citizen
Chauvelin.
He must have ridden hard on the other one's heels, and something very
unexpected and very sudden must have occurred to cause the Citizen to
send this second note.
This time it is curt and to the point. Robespierre unfolds it and reads
it to his colleagues.
“We have caught the woman--his wife--there may be murder attempted
against my person, send me some one at once who will carry out my
instructions in case of my sudden death.”
Robespierre's lips curl in satisfaction, showing a row of yellowish
teeth, long and sharp like the fangs of a wolf. A murmur like unto the
snarl of a pack of hyenas rises round the table, as Chauvelin's letter
is handed round.
Everyone has guessed the importance of this preliminary capture:
“the woman--his wife.” Chauvelin evidently thinks much of it, for he
anticipates an attempt against his life, nay! he is quite prepared for
it, ready to sacrifice it for the sake of his revenge.
Who had accused him of weakness?
He only thinks of his duty, not of his life; he does not fear for
himself, only that the fruits of his skill might be jeopardized through
assassination.
Well! this English adventurer is capable of any act of desperation to
save his wife and himself, and Citizen Chauvelin must not be left in the
lurch.
Thus, Citizen Collot d'Herbois is despatched forthwith to Boulogne to be
a helpmeet and counsellor to Citizen Chauvelin.
Everything that can humanly be devised must be done to keep the woman
secure and to set the trap for that elusive Pimpernel.
Once he is caught the whole of France shall rejoice, and Boulogne, who
had been instrumental in running the quarry to earth, must be specially
privileged on that day.
A general amnesty for all prisoners the day the Scarlet Pimpernel is
captured. A public holiday and a pardon for all natives of Boulogne who
are under sentence of death: they shall be allowed to find their way to
the various English boats--trading and smuggling craft--that always lie
at anchor in the roads there.
The Committee of Public Safety feel amazingly magnanimous towards
Boulogne; a proclamation embodying the amnesty and the pardon is at once
drawn up and signed by Robespierre and his bloodthirsty Council of Ten,
it is entrusted to Citizen Collot d'Herbois to be read out at every
corner of the ramparts as an inducement to the little town to do its
level best. The Englishman and his wife--captured in Boulogne--will
both be subsequently brought to Paris, formally tried on a charge of
conspiring against the Republic and guillotined as English spies, but
Boulogne shall have the greater glory and shall reap the first and
richest reward.
And armed with the magnanimous proclamation, the orders for general
rejoicings and a grand local fete, armed also with any and every power
over the entire city, its municipality, its garrisons, its forts, for
himself and his colleague Chauvelin, Citizen Collot d'Herbois starts for
Boulogne forthwith.
Needless to tell him not to let the grass grow under his horse's
hoofs. The capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel, though not absolutely an
accomplished fact, is nevertheless a practical certainty, and no one
rejoices over this great event more than the man who is to be present
and see all the fun.
Riding and driving, getting what relays of horses or waggons from
roadside farms that he can, Collot is not likely to waste much time on
the way.
It is 157 miles to Boulogne by road, and Collot, burning with ambition
to be in at the death, rides or drives as no messenger of good tidings
has ever ridden or driven before.
He does not stop to eat, but munches chunks of bread and cheese in the
recess of the lumbering chaise or waggon that bears him along whenever
his limbs refuse him service and he cannot mount a horse.
The chronicles tell us that twenty-four hours after he left Paris,
half-dazed with fatigue, but ferocious and eager still, he is borne
to the gates of Boulogne by an old cart horse requisitioned from some
distant farm, and which falls down, dead, at the Porte Gayole, whilst
its rider, with a last effort, loudly clamours for admittance into the
town “in the name of the Republic.”