"And where are these papers?"
"In the lining of my cloak."
"And what do you intend to do with them?"
"Deliver them to the man, Perry, of course."
"Do you know their contents?"
"No."
"Do you mean to examine them?"
"I should not dream of it. I should not dare. I should be a traitor."
"And you would act as the instrument of this perfidious despot, our
bitter enemy, in the advancement of his nefarious designs to keep the
rightful King of France in exile, and its people holden in his iron
grip! You would miss this opportunity of discovering his intentions and
informing his opponents of them! Why, those papers may contain
intelligence that may make, or mar him. It may be vital to our cause!"
She bounded from the couch and faced him. Then she went on
disdainfully. "And you would not dream of it; you would not dare; you
would be a traitor! Oh! you craven, you poor-hearted creature! Is it
blood that flows along your veins, or is it milk. Oh! to think that I
should have given my heart to such a man!" Her voice was rising rapidly
with her temper, and her face flushed red. "But I should dream of it; I
should dare; and I should be no traitor; and I will see those papers!"
Her words seemed to tumble over one another as she rushed them out, and
the last ended almost in a shriek.
St. Just turned pale and shivered at her violence. He thought he had
already plumbed the strength and depth of her emotions, but found them
still unfathomable. Again he felt that he was helpless in her hands.
Only personal violence would restrain her, and that he would not dream
of.
"My dearest, what you ask for is impossible," he remonstrated, but his
accents lagged behind his words.
"Impossible," she cried, "No, but certain; and I mean to have them."
And, before St. Just could say another word, she had seized his cloak,
which had been flung across a chair hard by the door, and had darted
from the room. Pursuit was useless, for she was fleet of foot and could
easily out-run him. Almost before he knew that she was gone, he heard
the key turned in the door outside, and her footsteps vanishing in the
distance. He was a prisoner, until it should please her to release him.
His heart went down within him. What would be the upshot of what had
just occurred? Would she restore the papers to him when she had
mastered what was in them--perhaps made a copy of them? A grim smile
came over him at the thought that this would be playing off on him the
very trick that he himself had played upon Sir Henry Emerson.
Fool that he had been! Why could he not have delivered his papers to
the hosier, Perry, before going to see his wife? Then this awful
predicament would have been avoided. Again his insensate passion for
this Delilah had made him betray his trust. And he had meant to be true
this time--certainly so far as the delivery of this despatch. He cursed
himself for not having foreseen that, when once Halima had discovered
the object of his journey, she would do her best to make it futile,
when, by so doing, she would baffle Buonaparte.
And now what could he do? Nothing against her will; she had him, so to
speak, bound and gagged.
In a fit of desperation, he rushed to the bell and pulled it
frantically; so violently, indeed, that he quickly broke it. But no one
came in answer to his summons. Halima had given orders to the contrary.
Also she had placed a strong man-servant at the door, with instructions
to stop St. Just should he burst it open. He did try, but his efforts
were in vain. Again and again he threw himself against it, but the door
was strong and resisted every impulse.
Then he began to shout with all his strength, now employing threats and
now entreaties. But still no one came to him. At last, he was
compelled to cease for want of breath. Patience only seemed left to
him, but how could he be patient?
He threw himself into a chair, worn out with his exertions, and
abandoned himself to the bitterness of his thoughts. So bitter indeed
were they, and so plunged in misery was he and so unhinged, that he
could not have been safely entrusted with a lethal weapon; for probably
that evening would have been his last. It was fortunate that Halima had
removed his traveling cloak, for it contained a brace of loaded pistols.
The twilight deepened and glided into night, and then, wearied out, he
fell asleep. Hour succeeded hour, until the night was nearly spent and
dawn approached.
He did not hear a carriage pull up before the house, but, almost
immediately afterwards, he felt himself roughly shaken. Opening his
eyes, he saw a servant standing over him with a candle in his hand.
Without speaking, the man put into his hand a note, which ran as
follows:
"Accompany the bearers whither they take you, without fear. Halima."
"Where is Madame?" he asked the servant.
"I do not know, Sir," the man replied respectfully, "she left home some
hours ago, and has not yet returned."