To Chauvelin the day had been one of restless inquietude and nervous
apprehension.
Collot d'Herbois harassed him with questions and complaints intermixed
with threats but thinly veiled. At his suggestion Gayole had been
transformed into a fully-manned, well-garrisoned fortress. Troops
were to be seen everywhere, on the stairs and in the passages, the
guard-rooms and offices: picked men from the municipal guard, and the
company which had been sent down from Paris some time ago.
Chauvelin had not resisted these orders given by his colleague. He knew
quite well that Marguerite would make no attempt at escape, but he had
long ago given up all hope of persuading a man of the type of Collot
d'Herbois that a woman of her temperament would never think of saving
her own life at the expense of others, and that Sir Percy Blakeney, in
spite of his adoration for his wife, would sooner see her die before
him, than allow the lives of innocent men and women to be the price of
hers.
Collot was one of those brutish sots--not by any means infrequent among
the Terrorists of that time--who, born in the gutter, still loved to
wallow in his native element, and who measured all his fellow-creatures
by the same standard which he had always found good enough for
himself. In this man there was neither the enthusiastic patriotism of
a Chauvelin, nor the ardent selflessness of a Danton. He served the
revolution and fostered the anarchical spirit of the times only because
these brought him a competence and a notoriety, which an orderly and
fastidious government would obviously have never offered him.
History shows no more despicable personality than that of Collot
d'Herbois, one of the most hideous products of that utopian Revolution,
whose grandly conceived theories of a universal levelling of mankind
only succeeded in dragging into prominence a number of half-brutish
creatures who, revelling in their own abasement, would otherwise have
remained content in inglorious obscurity.
Chauvelin tolerated and half feared Collot, knowing full well that if
now the Scarlet Pimpernel escaped from his hands, he could expect no
mercy from his colleagues.
The scheme by which he hoped to destroy not only the heroic leader but
the entire League by bringing opprobrium and ridicule upon them, was
wonderfully subtle in its refined cruelty, and Chauvelin, knowing by now
something of Sir Percy Blakeney's curiously blended character, was never
for a moment in doubt but that he would write the infamous letter, save
his wife by sacrificing his honour, and then seek oblivion and peace in
suicide.
With so much disgrace, so much mud cast upon their chief, the League of
the Scarlet Pimpernel would cease to be. THAT had been Chauvelin's plan
all along. For this end he had schemed and thought and planned, from the
moment that Robespierre had given him the opportunity of redeeming his
failure of last year. He had built up the edifice of his intrigue, bit
by bit, from the introduction of his tool, Candeille, to Marguerite at
the Richmond gala, to the arrest of Lady Blakeney in Boulogne. All that
remained for him to see now, would be the attitude of Sir Percy Blakeney
to-night, when, in exchange for the stipulated letter, he would see his
wife set free.
All day Chauvelin had wondered how it would all go off. He had
stage-managed everything, but he did not know how the chief actor would
play his part.
From time to time, when his feeling of restlessness became quite
unendurable, the ex-ambassador would wander round Fort Gayole and on
some pretext or other demand to see one or the other of his prisoners.
Marguerite, however, observed complete silence in his presence: she
acknowledged his greeting with a slight inclination of the head, and
in reply to certain perfunctory queries of his--which he put to her
in order to justify his appearance--she either nodded or gave curt
monosyllabic answers through partially closed lips.
“I trust that everything is arranged for your comfort, Lady Blakeney.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“You will be rejoining the 'Day-Dream' to-night. Can I send a messenger
over to the yacht for you?”
“I thank you. No.”
“Sir Percy is well. He is fast asleep, and hath not asked for your
ladyship. Shall I let him know that you are well?”
A nod of acquiescence from Marguerite and Chauvelin's string of queries
was at an end. He marvelled at her quietude and thought that she should
have been as restless as himself.
Later on in the day, and egged on by Collot d'Herbois and by his own
fears, he had caused Marguerite to be removed from No. 6.
This change he heralded by another brief visit to her, and his attitude
this time was one of deferential apology.
“A matter of expediency, Lady Blakeney,” he explained, “and I trust that
the change will be for your comfort.”
Again the same curt nod of acquiescence on her part, and a brief:
“As you command, Monsieur!”
But when he had gone, she turned with a sudden passionate outburst
towards the Abbe Foucquet, her faithful companion through the past long,
weary hours. She fell on her knees beside him and sobbed in an agony of
grief.
“Oh! if I could only know... if I could only see him!... for a minute...
a second!... if I could only know!...”
She felt as if the awful uncertainty would drive her mad.
If she could only know! If she could only know what he meant to do.
“The good God knows!” said the old man, with his usual simple
philosophy, “and perhaps it is all for the best.”
The room which Chauvelin had now destined for Marguerite was one which
gave from the larger one, wherein last night he had had his momentous
interview with her and with Sir Percy.
It was small, square and dark, with no window in it: only a small
ventilating hole high up in the wall and heavily grated. Chauvelin,
who desired to prove to her that there was no wish on his part to add
physical discomfort to her mental tortures, had given orders that the
little place should be made as habitable as possible. A thick, soft
carpet had been laid on the ground; there was an easy chair and a
comfortable-looking couch with a couple of pillows and a rug upon it,
and oh, marvel! on the round central table, a vase with a huge bunch
of many-coloured dahlias which seemed to throw a note as if of gladness
into this strange and gloomy little room.
At the furthest corner, too, a construction of iron uprights and
crossway bars had been hastily contrived and fitted with curtains,
forming a small recess, behind which was a tidy washstand, fine clean
towels and plenty of fresh water. Evidently the shops of Boulogne had
been commandeered in order to render Marguerite's sojourn here outwardly
agreeable.
But as the place was innocent of window, so was it innocent of doors.
The one that gave into the large room had been taken out of its hinges,
leaving only the frame, on each side of which stood a man from the
municipal guard with fixed bayonet.
Chauvelin himself had conducted Marguerite to her new prison. She
followed him--silent and apathetic--with not a trace of that awful
torrent of emotion which had overwhelmed her but half-an-hour ago when
she had fallen on her knees beside the old priest and sobbed her heart
out in a passionate fit of weeping. Even the sight of the soldiers
left her outwardly indifferent. As she stepped across the threshold she
noticed that the door itself had been taken away: then she gave another
quick glance at the soldiers, whose presence there would control her
every movement.
The thought of Queen Marie Antoinette in the Conciergerie prison with
the daily, hourly humiliation and shame which this constant watch
imposed upon her womanly pride and modesty, flashed suddenly across
Marguerite's mind, and a deep blush of horror rapidly suffused her pale
cheeks, whilst an almost imperceptible shudder shook her delicate frame.
Perhaps, as in a flash, she had at this moment received an inkling
of what the nature of that terrible “either--or” might be, with which
Chauvelin was trying to force an English gentleman to dishonour. Sir
Percy Blakeney's wife had been threatened with Marie Antoinette's fate.
“You see, Madame,” said her cruel enemy's unctuous voice close to her
ear, “that we have tried our humble best to make your brief sojourn here
as agreeable as possible. May I express a hope that you will be quite
comfortable in this room, until the time when Sir Percy will be ready to
accompany you to the 'Day-Dream.'”
“I thank you, sir,” she replied quietly.
“And if there is anything you require, I pray you to call. I shall be in
the next room all day and entirely at your service.”
A young orderly now entered bearing a small collation--eggs, bread, milk
and wine--which he set on the central table. Chauvelin bowed low before
Marguerite and withdrew. Anon he ordered the two sentinels to stand the
other side of the doorway, against the wall of his own room, and well
out of sight of Marguerite, so that, as she moved about her own narrow
prison, if she ate or slept, she might have the illusion that she was
unwatched.
The sight of the soldiers had had the desired effect on her. Chauvelin
had seen her shudder and knew that she understood or that she guessed.
He was now satisfied and really had no wish to harass her beyond
endurance.
Moreover, there was always the proclamation which threatened the
bread-winners of Boulogne with death if Marguerite Blakeney escaped,
and which would be in full force until Sir Percy had written, signed and
delivered into Chauvelin's hands the letter which was to be the signal
for the general amnesty.
Chauvelin had indeed cause to be satisfied with his measures. There was
no fear that his prisoners would attempt to escape.
Even Collot d'Herbois had to admit everything was well done. He had read
the draft of the proposed letter and was satisfied with its contents.
Gradually now into his loutish brain there had filtrated the conviction
that Citizen Chauvelin was right, that that accursed Scarlet Pimpernel
and his brood of English spies would be more effectually annihilated
by all the dishonour and ridicule which such a letter written by the
mysterious hero would heap upon them all, than they could ever be
through the relentless work of the guillotine. His only anxiety now was
whether the Englishman would write that letter.
“Bah! he'll do it,” he would say whenever he thought the whole matter
over: “Sacre tonnerre! but 'tis an easy means to save his own skin.”
“You would sign such a letter without hesitation, eh, Citizen Collot,”
said Chauvelin, with well-concealed sarcasm, on one occasion when his
colleague discussed the all-absorbing topic with him; “you would show
no hesitation, if your life were at stake, and you were given the choice
between writing that letter and... the guillotine?”
“Parbleu!” responded Collot with conviction.
“More especially,” continued Chauvelin drily, “if a million francs were
promised you as well?”
“Sacre Anglais!” swore Collot angrily, “you don't propose giving him that
money, do you?”
“We'll place it ready to his hand, at any rate, so that it should appear
as if he had actually taken it.”
Collot looked up at his colleague in ungrudging admiration. Chauvelin
had indeed left nothing undone, had thought everything out in this
strangely conceived scheme for the destruction of the enemy of France.
“But in the name of all the dwellers in hell, Citizen,” admonished
Collot, “guard that letter well, once it is in your hands.”
“I'll do better than that,” said Chauvelin, “I will hand it over to you,
Citizen Collot, and you shall ride with it to Paris at once.”
“To-night!” assented Collot with a shout of triumph, as he brought his
grimy fist crashing down on the table, “I'll have a horse ready saddled
at this very gate, and an escort of mounted men... we'll ride like
hell's own furies and not pause to breathe until that letter is in
Citizen Robespierre's hands.”
“Well thought of, Citizen,” said Chauvelin approvingly. “I pray you
give the necessary orders, that the horses be ready saddled, and the
men booted and spurred, and waiting at the Gayole gate, at seven o'clock
this evening.”
“I wish the letter were written and safely in our hands by now.”
“Nay! the Englishman will have it ready by this evening, never fear. The
tide is high at half-past seven, and he will be in haste for his wife to
be aboard his yacht, ere the turn, even if he...”
He paused, savouring the thoughts which had suddenly flashed across his
mind, and a look of intense hatred and cruel satisfaction for a moment
chased away the studied impassiveness of his face.
“What do you mean, Citizen?” queried Collot anxiously, “even if he...
what?...”
“Oh! nothing, nothing! I was only trying to make vague guesses as to
what the Englishman will do AFTER he has written the letter,” quoth
Chauvelin reflectively.
“Morbleu! he'll return to his own accursed country... glad enough to
have escaped with his skin.... I suppose,” added Collot with sudden
anxiety, “you have no fear that he will refuse at the last moment to
write that letter?”
The two men were sitting in the large room, out of which opened the one
which was now occupied by Marguerite. They were talking at the further
end of it, close to the window, and though Chauvelin had mostly spoken
in a whisper, Collot had ofttimes shouted, and the ex-ambassador was
wondering how much Marguerite had heard.
Now at Collot's anxious query he gave a quick furtive glance in the
direction of the further room wherein she sat, so silent and so still,
that it seemed almost as if she must be sleeping.
“You don't think that the Englishman will refuse to write the letter?”
insisted Collot with angry impatience.
“No!” replied Chauvelin quietly.
“But if he does?” persisted the other.
“If he does, I send the woman to Paris to-night and have him hanged as
a spy in this prison yard without further formality or trial...” replied
Chauvelin firmly; “so either way, you see, Citizen,” he added in a
whisper, “the Scarlet Pimpernel is done for.... But I think that he will
write the letter.”
“Parbleu! so do I!...” rejoined Collot with a coarse laugh.