Later on, when his colleague left him in order to see to the horses and
to his escort for to-night, Chauvelin called Sergeant Hebert, his old
and trusted familiar, to him and gave him some final orders.
“The Angelus must be rung at the proper hour, friend Hebert,” he began
with a grim smile.
“The Angelus, Citizen?” quoth the Sergeant, with complete stupefaction,
“'tis months now since it has been rung. It was forbidden by a decree of
the Convention, and I doubt me if any of our men would know how to set
about it.”
Chauvelin's eyes were fixed before him in apparent vacancy, while the
same grim smile still hovered round his thin lips. Something of that
irresponsible spirit of adventure which was the mainspring of all Sir
Percy Blakeney's actions, must for the moment have pervaded the mind of
his deadly enemy.
Chauvelin had thought out this idea of having the Angelus rung to-night,
and was thoroughly pleased with the notion. This was the day when the
duel was to have been fought; seven o'clock would have been the very
hour, and the sound of the Angelus to have been the signal for combat,
and there was something very satisfying in the thought, that that same
Angelus should be rung, as a signal that the Scarlet Pimpernel was
withered and broken at last.
In answer to Hebert's look of bewilderment Chauvelin said quietly:
“We must have some signal between ourselves and the guard at the
different gates, also with the harbour officials: at a given moment the
general amnesty must take effect and the harbour become a free port. I
have a fancy that the signal shall be the ringing of the Angelus: the
cannons at the gates and the harbour can boom in response; then the
prisons can be thrown open and prisoners can either participate in
the evening fete or leave the city immediately, as they choose. The
Committee of Public Safety has promised the amnesty: it will carry out
its promise to the full, and when Citizen Collot d'Herbois arrives in
Paris with the joyful news, all natives of Boulogne in the prisons there
will participate in the free pardon too.”
“I understand all that, Citizen,” said Hebert, still somewhat
bewildered, “but not the Angelus.”
“A fancy, friend Hebert, and I mean to have it.”
“But who is to ring it, Citizen?”
“Morbleu! haven't you one calotin left in Boulogne whom you can press
into doing this service?”
“Aye! calotins enough! there's the Abbe Foucquet in this very
building... in No. 6 cell...”
“Sacre tonnerre!” ejaculated Chauvelin exultingly, “the very man! I
know his dossier well! Once he is free, he will make straightway for
England... he and his family... and will help to spread the glorious
news of the dishonour and disgrace of the much-vaunted Scarlet
Pimpernel!... The very man, friend Hebert!... Let him be stationed
here... to see the letter written... to see the money handed over--for
we will go through with that farce--and make him understand that the
moment I give him the order, he can run over to his old church St.
Joseph and ring the Angelus. ... The old fool will be delighted... more
especially when he knows that he will thereby be giving the very signal
which will set his own sister's children free.... You understand?...”
“I understand, Citizen.”
“And you can make the old calotin understand?”
“I think so, Citizen.... You want him in this room.... At what time?”
“A quarter before seven.”
“Yes. I'll bring him along myself, and stand over him, lest he play any
pranks.”
“Oh! he'll not trouble you,” sneered Chauvelin, “he'll be deeply
interested in the proceedings. The woman will be here too, remember,” he
added with a jerky movement of the hand in the direction of Marguerite's
room, “the two might be made to stand together, with four of your
fellows round them.”
“I understand, Citizen. Are any of us to escort the Citizen Foucquet
when he goes to St. Joseph?”
“Aye! two men had best go with him. There will be a crowd in the streets
by then... How far is it from here to the church?”
“Less than five minutes.”
“Good. See to it that the doors are opened and the bell ropes easy of
access.”
“It shall be seen to, Citizen. How many men will you have inside this
room to-night?”
“Let the walls be lined with men whom you can trust. I anticipate
neither trouble nor resistance. The whole thing is a simple formality to
which the Englishman has already intimated his readiness to submit. If
he changes his mind at the last moment there will be no Angelus rung, no
booming of the cannons or opening of the prison doors: there will be
no amnesty, and no free pardon. The woman will be at once conveyed
to Paris, and... But he'll not change his mind, friend Hebert,” he
concluded in suddenly altered tones, and speaking quite lightly, “he'll
not change his mind.”
The conversation between Chauvelin and his familiar had been carried on
in whispers: not that the Terrorist cared whether Marguerite overheard
or not, but whispering had become a habit with this man, whose tortuous
ways and subtle intrigues did not lend themselves to discussion in a
loud voice.
Chauvelin was sitting at the central table, just where he had been
last night when Sir Percy Blakeney's sudden advent broke in on his
meditations. The table had been cleared of the litter of multitudinous
papers which had encumbered it before. On it now there were only a
couple of heavy pewter candlesticks, with the tallow candles fixed ready
in them, a leather-pad, an ink-well, a sand-box and two or three quill
pens: everything disposed, in fact, for the writing and signing of the
letter.
Already in imagination, Chauvelin saw his impudent enemy, the bold and
daring adventurer, standing there beside that table and putting his name
to the consummation of his own infamy. The mental picture thus evoked
brought a gleam of cruel satisfaction and of satiated lust into the
keen, ferret-like face, and a smile of intense joy lit up the narrow,
pale-coloured eyes.
He looked round the room where the great scene would be enacted: two
soldiers were standing guard outside Marguerite's prison, two more at
attention near the door which gave on the passage: his own half-dozen
picked men were waiting his commands in the corridor. Presently the
whole room would be lined with troops, himself and Collot standing with
eyes fixed on the principal actor of the drama! Hebert with specially
selected troopers standing on guard over Marguerite!
No, no! he had left nothing to chance this time, and down below the
horses would be ready saddled, that were to convey Collot and the
precious document to Paris.
No! nothing was left to chance, and in either case he was bound to win.
Sir Percy Blakeney would either write the letter in order to save
his wife, and heap dishonour on himself, or he would shrink from the
terrible ordeal at the last moment and let Chauvelin and the Committee
of Public Safety work their will with her and him.
“In that case the pillory as a spy and summary hanging for you, my
friend,” concluded Chauvelin in his mind, “and for your wife... Bah,
once you are out of the way, even she will cease to matter.”
He left Hebert on guard in the room. An irresistible desire seized him
to go and have a look at his discomfited enemy, and from the latter's
attitude make a shrewd guess as to what he meant to do to-night.
Sir Percy had been given a room on one of the upper floors of the old
prison. He had in no way been closely guarded, and the room itself
had been made as comfortable as may be. He had seemed quite happy and
contented when he had been conducted hither by Chauvelin, the evening
before.
“I hope you quite understand, Sir Percy, that you are my guest here
to-night,” Chauvelin had said suavely, “and that you are free to come
and go, just as you please.”
“Lud love you, sir,” Sir Percy had replied gaily, “but I verily believe
that I am.”
“It is only Lady Blakeney whom we have cause to watch until to-morrow,”
added Chauvelin with quiet significance. “Is that not so, Sir Percy?”
But Sir Percy seemed, whenever his wife's name was mentioned, to lapse
into irresistible somnolence. He yawned now with his usual affectation,
and asked at what hour gentlemen in France were wont to breakfast.
Since then Chauvelin had not seen him. He had repeatedly asked how the
English prisoner was faring, and whether he seemed to be sleeping and
eating heartily. The orderly in charge invariably reported that the
Englishman seemed well, but did not eat much. On the other hand, he
had ordered, and lavishly paid for, measure after measure of brandy and
bottle after bottle of wine.
“Hm! how strange these Englishmen are!” mused Chauvelin; “this so-called
hero is nothing but a wine-sodden brute, who seeks to nerve himself for
a trying ordeal by drowning his faculties in brandy... Perhaps after all
he doesn't care!...”
But the wish to have a look at that strangely complex creature--hero,
adventurer or mere lucky fool--was irresistible, and Chauvelin in the
latter part of the afternoon went up to the room which had been allotted
to Sir Percy Blakeney.
He never moved now without his escort, and this time also two of his
favourite bodyguards accompanied him to the upper floor. He knocked at
the door, but received no answer, and after a second or two he bade his
men wait in the corridor and, gently turning the latch, walked in.
There was an odour of brandy in the air; on the table two or three empty
bottles of wine and a glass half filled with cognac testified to the
truth of what the orderly had said, whilst sprawling across the camp
bedstead, which obviously was too small for his long limbs, his head
thrown back, his mouth open for a vigorous snore, lay the imperturbable
Sir Percy fast asleep.
Chauvelin went up to the bedstead and looked down upon the reclining
figure of the man who had oft been called the most dangerous enemy of
Republican France.
Of a truth, a fine figure of a man, Chauvelin was ready enough to admit
that; the long, hard limbs, the wide chest, and slender, white hands,
all bespoke the man of birth, breeding and energy: the face too looked
strong and clearly-cut in repose, now that the perpetually inane smile
did not play round the firm lips, nor the lazy, indolent expression
mar the seriousness of the straight brow. For one moment--it was a mere
flash--Chauvelin felt almost sorry that so interesting a career should
be thus ignominiously brought to a close.
The Terrorist felt that if his own future, his own honour and integrity
were about to be so hopelessly crushed, he would have wandered up and
down this narrow room like a caged beast, eating out his heart with
self-reproach and remorse, and racking his nerves and brain for an issue
out of the terrible alternative which meant dishonour or death.
But this man drank and slept.
“Perhaps he doesn't care!”
And as if in answer to Chauvelin's puzzled musing a deep snore escaped
the sleeping adventurer's parted lips.
Chauvelin sighed, perplexed and troubled. He looked round the little
room, then went up to a small side table which stood against the wall
and on which were two or three quill pens and an ink-well, also some
loosely scattered sheets of paper. These he turned over with a careless
hand and presently came across a closely written page. ---- “Citizen
Chauvelin:--In consideration of a further sum of one million francs...”
It was the beginning of the letter!... only a few words so far... with
several corrections of misspelt words... and a line left out here and
there which confused the meaning... a beginning made by the unsteady
hand of that drunken fool... an attempt only at present....
But still... a beginning.
Close by was the draft of it as written out by Chauvelin, and which Sir
Percy had evidently begun to copy.
He had made up his mind then.... He meant to subscribe with his own hand
to his lasting dishonour... and meaning it, he slept!
Chauvelin felt the paper trembling in his hand. He felt strangely
agitated and nervous, now that the issue was so near... so sure!...
“There's no demmed hurry for that, is there... er... Monsieur
Chaubertin?...” came from the slowly wakening Sir Percy in somewhat
thick, heavy accents, accompanied by a prolonged yawn. “I haven't got
the demmed thing quite ready...”
Chauvelin had been so startled that the paper dropped from his hand. He
stooped to pick it up.
“Nay! why should you be so scared, sir?” continued Sir Percy lazily,
“did you think I was drunk?... I assure you, sir, on my honour, I am not
so drunk as you think I am.”
“I have no doubt, Sir Percy,” replied Chauvelin ironically, “that you
have all your marvellous faculties entirely at your command.... I
must apologize for disturbing your papers,” he added, replacing the
half-written page on the table, “I thought perhaps that if the letter
was ready ...”
“It will be, sir... it will be... for I am not drunk, I assure you....
and can write with a steady hand... and do honour to my signature....”
“When will you have the letter ready, Sir Percy?”
“The 'Day-Dream' must leave the harbour at the turn of the tide,” quoth
Sir Percy thickly. “It'll be demmed well time by then... won't it,
sir?...”
“About sundown, Sir Percy... not later...”
“About sundown... not later...” muttered Blakeney, as he once more
stretched his long limbs along the narrow bed.
He gave a loud and hearty yawn.
“I'll not fail you...” he murmured, as he closed his eyes, and gave a
final struggle to get his head at a comfortable angle, “the letter will
be written in my best cali... calig.... Lud! but I'm not so drunk as you
think I am. ...”
But as if to belie his own oft-repeated assertion, hardly was the last
word out of his mouth than his stertorous and even breathing proclaimed
the fact that he was once more fast asleep.
With a shrug of the shoulders and a look of unutterable contempt at
his broken-down enemy, Chauvelin turned on his heel and went out of the
room.
But outside in the corridor he called the orderly to him and gave strict
commands that no more wine or brandy was to be served to the Englishman
under any circumstances whatever.
“He has two hours in which to sleep off the effects of all that brandy
which he had consumed,” he mused as he finally went back to his own
quarters, “and by that time he will be able to write with a steady
hand.”