This was Armand S. Just’s first visit to Paris since that memorable day
when first he decided to sever his connection from the Republican party,
of which he and his beautiful sister Marguerite had at one time been
amongst the most noble, most enthusiastic followers. Already a year and
a half ago the excesses of the party had horrified him, and that was
long before they had degenerated into the sickening orgies which were
culminating to-day in wholesale massacres and bloody hecatombs of
innocent victims.
With the death of Mirabeau the moderate Republicans, whose sole and
entirely pure aim had been to free the people of France from the
autocratic tyranny of the Bourbons, saw the power go from their clean
hands to the grimy ones of lustful demagogues, who knew no law save
their own passions of bitter hatred against all classes that were not as
self-seeking, as ferocious as themselves.
It was no longer a question of a fight for political and religious
liberty only, but one of class against class, man against man, and
let the weaker look to himself. The weaker had proved himself to
be, firstly, the man of property and substance, then the law-abiding
citizen, lastly the man of action who had obtained for the people that
very same liberty of thought and of belief which soon became so terribly
misused.
Armand St. Just, one of the apostles of liberty, fraternity, and
equality, soon found that the most savage excesses of tyranny were being
perpetrated in the name of those same ideals which he had worshipped.
His sister Marguerite, happily married in England, was the final
temptation which caused him to quit the country the destinies of which
he no longer could help to control. The spark of enthusiasm which he
and the followers of Mirabeau had tried to kindle in the hearts of an
oppressed people had turned to raging tongues of unquenchable flames.
The taking of the Bastille had been the prelude to the massacres of
September, and even the horror of these had since paled beside the
holocausts of to-day.
Armand, saved from the swift vengeance of the revolutionaries by the
devotion of the Scarlet Pimpernel, crossed over to England and enrolled
himself under the banner of the heroic chief. But he had been unable
hitherto to be an active member of the League. The chief was loath to
allow him to run foolhardy risks. The St. Justs--both Marguerite and
Armand--were still very well-known in Paris. Marguerite was not a woman
easily forgotten, and her marriage with an English “aristo” did not
please those republican circles who had looked upon her as their queen.
Armand’s secession from his party into the ranks of the emigres had
singled him out for special reprisals, if and whenever he could be got
hold of, and both brother and sister had an unusually bitter enemy in
their cousin Antoine St. Just--once an aspirant to Marguerite’s hand,
and now a servile adherent and imitator of Robespierre, whose ferocious
cruelty he tried to emulate with a view to ingratiating himself with the
most powerful man of the day.
Nothing would have pleased Antoine St. Just more than the opportunity of
showing his zeal and his patriotism by denouncing his own kith and kin
to the Tribunal of the Terror, and the Scarlet Pimpernel, whose own
slender fingers were held on the pulse of that reckless revolution, had
no wish to sacrifice Armand’s life deliberately, or even to expose it to
unnecessary dangers.
Thus it was that more than a year had gone by before Armand St. Just--an
enthusiastic member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel--was able
to do aught for its service. He had chafed under the enforced restraint
placed upon him by the prudence of his chief, when, indeed, he was
longing to risk his life with the comrades whom he loved and beside the
leader whom he revered.
At last, in the beginning of ‘94 he persuaded Blakeney to allow him
to join the next expedition to France. What the principal aim of that
expedition was the members of the League did not know as yet, but what
they did know was that perils--graver even than hitherto--would attend
them on their way.
The circumstances had become very different of late. At first the
impenetrable mystery which had surrounded the personality of the chief
had been a full measure of safety, but now one tiny corner of that
veil of mystery had been lifted by two rough pairs of hands at least;
Chauvelin, ex-ambassador at the English Court, was no longer in any
doubt as to the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, whilst Collot
d’Herbois had seen him at Boulogne, and had there been effectually
foiled by him.
Four months had gone by since that day, and the Scarlet Pimpernel
was hardly ever out of France now; the massacres in Paris and in the
provinces had multiplied with appalling rapidity, the necessity for the
selfless devotion of that small band of heroes had become daily, hourly
more pressing. They rallied round their chief with unbounded enthusiasm,
and let it be admitted at once that the sporting instinct--inherent in
these English gentlemen--made them all the more keen, all the more
eager now that the dangers which beset their expeditions were increased
tenfold.
At a word from the beloved leader, these young men--the spoilt darlings
of society--would leave the gaieties, the pleasures, the luxuries of
London or of Bath, and, taking their lives in their hands, they placed
them, together with their fortunes, and even their good names, at the
service of the innocent and helpless victims of merciless tyranny. The
married men--Ffoulkes, my Lord Hastings, Sir Jeremiah Wallescourt--left
wife and children at a call from the chief, at the cry of the wretched.
Armand--unattached and enthusiastic--had the right to demand that he
should no longer be left behind.
He had only been away a little over fifteen months, and yet he found
Paris a different city from the one he had left immediately after the
terrible massacres of September. An air of grim loneliness seemed to
hang over her despite the crowds that thronged her streets; the men whom
he was wont to meet in public places fifteen months ago--friends and
political allies--were no longer to be seen; strange faces surrounded
him on every side--sullen, glowering faces, all wearing a certain air of
horrified surprise and of vague, terrified wonder, as if life had
become one awful puzzle, the answer to which must be found in the brief
interval between the swift passages of death.
Armand St. Just, having settled his few simple belongings in the squalid
lodgings which had been assigned to him, had started out after dark to
wander somewhat aimlessly through the streets. Instinctively he seemed
to be searching for a familiar face, some one who would come to him out
of that merry past which he had spent with Marguerite in their pretty
apartment in the Rue St. Honore.
For an hour he wandered thus and met no one whom he knew. At times it
appeared to him as if he did recognise a face or figure that passed him
swiftly by in the gloom, but even before he could fully make up his mind
to that, the face or figure had already disappeared, gliding furtively
down some narrow unlighted by-street, without turning to look to right
or left, as if dreading fuller recognition. Armand felt a total stranger
in his own native city.
The terrible hours of the execution on the Place de la Revolution
were fortunately over, the tumbrils no longer rattled along the uneven
pavements, nor did the death-cry of the unfortunate victims resound
through the deserted streets. Armand was, on this first day of his
arrival, spared the sight of this degradation of the once lovely city;
but her desolation, her general appearance of shamefaced indigence and
of cruel aloofness struck a chill in the young man’s heart.
It was no wonder, therefore, when anon he was wending his way slowly
back to his lodging he was accosted by a pleasant, cheerful voice, that
he responded to it with alacrity. The voice, of a smooth, oily timbre,
as if the owner kept it well greased for purposes of amiable speech,
was like an echo of the past, when jolly, irresponsible Baron de Batz,
erst-while officer of the Guard in the service of the late King,
and since then known to be the most inveterate conspirator for the
restoration of the monarchy, used to amuse Marguerite by his vapid,
senseless plans for the overthrow of the newly-risen power of the
people.
Armand was quite glad to meet him, and when de Batz suggested that a
good talk over old times would be vastly agreeable, the younger man
gladly acceded. The two men, though certainly not mistrustful of one
another, did not seem to care to reveal to each other the place where
they lodged. De Batz at once proposed the avant-scene box of one of the
theatres as being the safest place where old friends could talk without
fear of spying eyes or ears.
“There is no place so safe or so private nowadays, believe me, my young
friend,” he said “I have tried every sort of nook and cranny in this
accursed town, now riddled with spies, and I have come to the conclusion
that a small avant-scene box is the most perfect den of privacy there
is in the entire city. The voices of the actors on the stage and the hum
among the audience in the house will effectually drown all individual
conversation to every ear save the one for whom it is intended.”
It is not difficult to persuade a young man who feels lonely and
somewhat forlorn in a large city to while away an evening in the
companionship of a cheerful talker, and de Batz was essentially good
company. His vapourings had always been amusing, but Armand now gave him
credit for more seriousness of purpose; and though the chief had warned
him against picking up acquaintances in Paris, the young man felt that
that restriction would certainly not apply to a man like de Batz, whose
hot partisanship of the Royalist cause and hare-brained schemes for
its restoration must make him at one with the League of the Scarlet
Pimpernel.
Armand accepted the other’s cordial invitation. He, too, felt that he
would indeed be safer from observation in a crowded theatre than in
the streets. Among a closely packed throng bent on amusement the
sombrely-clad figure of a young man, with the appearance of a student or
of a journalist, would easily pass unperceived.
But somehow, after the first ten minutes spent in de Batz’ company
within the gloomy shelter of the small avant-scene box, Armand already
repented of the impulse which had prompted him to come to the theatre
to-night, and to renew acquaintanceship with the ex-officer of the late
King’s Guard. Though he knew de Batz to be an ardent Royalist, and even
an active adherent of the monarchy, he was soon conscious of a vague
sense of mistrust of this pompous, self-complacent individual, whose
every utterance breathed selfish aims rather than devotion to a forlorn
cause.
Therefore, when the curtain rose at last on the first act of Moliere’s
witty comedy, St. Just turned deliberately towards the stage and tried
to interest himself in the wordy quarrel between Philinte and Alceste.
But this attitude on the part of the younger man did not seem to suit
his newly-found friend. It was clear that de Batz did not consider the
topic of conversation by any means exhausted, and that it had been more
with a view to a discussion like the present interrupted one that he had
invited St. Just to come to the theatre with him to-night, rather
than for the purpose of witnessing Mlle. Lange’s debut in the part of
Celimene.
The presence of St. Just in Paris had as a matter of fact astonished de
Batz not a little, and had set his intriguing brain busy on conjectures.
It was in order to turn these conjectures into certainties that he had
desired private talk with the young man.
He waited silently now for a moment or two, his keen, small eyes resting
with evident anxiety on Armand’s averted head, his fingers still beating
the impatient tattoo upon the velvet-covered cushion of the box. Then at
the first movement of St. Just towards him he was ready in an instant to
re-open the subject under discussion.
With a quick nod of his head he called his young friend’s attention back
to the men in the auditorium.
“Your good cousin Antoine St. Just is hand and glove with Robespierre
now,” he said. “When you left Paris more than a year ago you could
afford to despise him as an empty-headed windbag; now, if you desire to
remain in France, you will have to fear him as a power and a menace.”
“Yes, I knew that he had taken to herding with the wolves,” rejoined
Armand lightly. “At one time he was in love with my sister. I thank God
that she never cared for him.”
“They say that he herds with the wolves because of this disappointment,”
said de Batz. “The whole pack is made up of men who have been
disappointed, and who have nothing more to lose. When all these wolves
will have devoured one another, then and then only can we hope for the
restoration of the monarchy in France. And they will not turn on one
another whilst prey for their greed lies ready to their jaws. Your
friend the Scarlet Pimpernel should feed this bloody revolution of ours
rather than starve it, if indeed he hates it as he seems to do.”
His restless eyes peered with eager interrogation into those of the
younger man. He paused as if waiting for a reply; then, as St. Just
remained silent, he reiterated slowly, almost in the tones of a
challenge:
“If indeed he hates this bloodthirsty revolution of ours as he seems to
do.”
The reiteration implied a doubt. In a moment St. Just’s loyalty was up
in arms.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” he said, “cares naught for your political aims.
The work of mercy that he does, he does for justice and for humanity.”
“And for sport,” said de Batz with a sneer, “so I’ve been told.”
“He is English,” assented St. Just, “and as such will never own to
sentiment. Whatever be the motive, look at the result!
“Yes! a few lives stolen from the guillotine.”
“Women and children--innocent victims--would have perished but for his
devotion.”
“The more innocent they were, the more helpless, the more pitiable,
the louder would their blood have cried for reprisals against the wild
beasts who sent them to their death.”
St. Just made no reply. It was obviously useless to attempt to argue
with this man, whose political aims were as far apart from those of the
Scarlet Pimpernel as was the North Pole from the South.
“If any of you have influence over that hot-headed leader of yours,”
continued de Batz, unabashed by the silence of his friend, “I wish to
God you would exert it now.”
“In what way?” queried St. Just, smiling in spite of himself at the
thought of his or any one else’s control over Blakeney and his plans.
It was de Batz’ turn to be silent. He paused for a moment or two, then
he asked abruptly:
“Your Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris now, is he not?”
“I cannot tell you,” replied Armand.
“Bah! there is no necessity to fence with me, my friend. The moment I
set eyes on you this afternoon I knew that you had not come to Paris
alone.”
“You are mistaken, my good de Batz,” rejoined the young man earnestly;
“I came to Paris alone.”
“Clever parrying, on my word--but wholly wasted on my unbelieving ears.
Did I not note at once that you did not seem overpleased to-day when I
accosted you?”
“Again you are mistaken. I was very pleased to meet you, for I had felt
singularly lonely all day, and was glad to shake a friend by the hand.
What you took for displeasure was only surprise.”
“Surprise? Ah, yes! I don’t wonder that you were surprised to see me
walking unmolested and openly in the streets of Paris--whereas you had
heard of me as a dangerous conspirator, eh?--and as a man who has the
entire police of his country at his heels--on whose head there is a
price--what?”
“I knew that you had made several noble efforts to rescue the
unfortunate King and Queen from the hands of these brutes.”
“All of which efforts were unsuccessful,” assented de Batz
imperturbably, “every one of them having been either betrayed by some
d----d confederate or ferreted out by some astute spy eager for gain. Yes,
my friend, I made several efforts to rescue King Louis and Queen Marie
Antoinette from the scaffold, and every time I was foiled, and yet here
I am, you see, unscathed and free. I walk about the streets boldly, and
talk to my friends as I meet them.”
“You are lucky,” said St. Just, not without a tinge of sarcasm.
“I have been prudent,” retorted de Batz. “I have taken the trouble to
make friends there where I thought I needed them most--the mammon of
unrighteousness, you know-what?”
And he laughed a broad, thick laugh of perfect self-satisfaction.
“Yes, I know,” rejoined St. Just, with the tone of sarcasm still more
apparent in his voice now. “You have Austrian money at your disposal.”
“Any amount,” said the other complacently, “and a great deal of it
sticks to the grimy fingers of these patriotic makers of revolutions.
Thus do I ensure my own safety. I buy it with the Emperor’s money, and
thus am I able to work for the restoration of the monarchy in France.”
Again St. Just was silent. What could he say? Instinctively now, as the
fleshy personality of the Gascon Royalist seemed to spread itself out
and to fill the tiny box with his ambitious schemes and his far-reaching
plans, Armand’s thoughts flew back to that other plotter, the man
with the pure and simple aims, the man whose slender fingers had never
handled alien gold, but were ever there ready stretched out to the
helpless and the weak, whilst his thoughts were only of the help that he
might give them, but never of his own safety.
De Batz, however, seemed blandly unconscious of any such disparaging
thoughts in the mind of his young friend, for he continued quite
amiably, even though a note of anxiety seemed to make itself felt now in
his smooth voice:
“We advance slowly, but step by step, my good St. Just,” he said. “I
have not been able to save the monarchy in the person of the King or the
Queen, but I may yet do it in the person of the Dauphin.”
“The Dauphin,” murmured St. Just involuntarily.
That involuntary murmur, scarcely audible, so soft was it, seemed in
some way to satisfy de Batz, for the keenness of his gaze relaxed, and
his fat fingers ceased their nervous, intermittent tattoo on the ledge
of the box.
“Yes! the Dauphin,” he said, nodding his head as if in answer to his
own thoughts, “or rather, let me say, the reigning King of France--Louis
XVII, by the grace of God--the most precious life at present upon the
whole of this earth.”
“You are right there, friend de Batz,” assented Armand fervently,
“the most precious life, as you say, and one that must be saved at all
costs.”
“Yes,” said de Batz calmly, “but not by your friend the Scarlet
Pimpernel.”
“Why not?”
Scarce were those two little words out of St. Just’s mouth than he
repented of them. He bit his lip, and with a dark frown upon his face he
turned almost defiantly towards his friend.
But de Batz smiled with easy bonhomie.
“Ah, friend Armand,” he said, “you were not cut out for diplomacy, nor
yet for intrigue. So then,” he added more seriously, “that gallant hero,
the Scarlet Pimpernel, has hopes of rescuing our young King from the
clutches of Simon the cobbler and of the herd of hyenas on the watch for
his attenuated little corpse, eh?”
“I did not say that,” retorted St. Just sullenly.
“No. But I say it. Nay! nay! do not blame yourself, my over-loyal young
friend. Could I, or any one else, doubt for a moment that sooner or
later your romantic hero would turn his attention to the most pathetic
sight in the whole of Europe--the child-martyr in the Temple prison?
The wonder were to me if the Scarlet Pimpernel ignored our little King
altogether for the sake of his subjects. No, no; do not think for a
moment that you have betrayed your friend’s secret to me. When I met you
so luckily today I guessed at once that you were here under the banner
of the enigmatical little red flower, and, thus guessing, I even went a
step further in my conjecture. The Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris now in
the hope of rescuing Louis XVII from the Temple prison.”
“If that is so, you must not only rejoice but should be able to help.”
“And yet, my friend, I do neither the one now nor mean to do the other
in the future,” said de Batz placidly. “I happen to be a Frenchman, you
see.”
“What has that to do with such a question?”
“Everything; though you, Armand, despite that you are a Frenchman too,
do not look through my spectacles. Louis XVII is King of France, my good
St. Just; he must owe his freedom and his life to us Frenchmen, and to
no one else.”
“That is sheer madness, man,” retorted Armand. “Would you have the child
perish for the sake of your own selfish ideas?”
“You may call them selfish if you will; all patriotism is in a measure
selfish. What does the rest of the world care if we are a republic or a
monarchy, an oligarchy or hopeless anarchy? We work for ourselves and to
please ourselves, and I for one will not brook foreign interference.”
“Yet you work with foreign money!”
“That is another matter. I cannot get money in France, so I get it where
I can; but I can arrange for the escape of Louis XVII from the Temple
Prison, and to us Royalists of France should belong the honour and glory
of having saved our King.”
For the third time now St. Just allowed the conversation to drop; he was
gazing wide-eyed, almost appalled at this impudent display of well-nigh
ferocious selfishness and vanity. De Batz, smiling and complacent, was
leaning back in his chair, looking at his young friend with perfect
contentment expressed in every line of his pock-marked face and in the
very attitude of his well-fed body. It was easy enough now to understand
the remarkable immunity which this man was enjoying, despite the many
foolhardy plots which he hatched, and which had up to now invariably
come to naught.
A regular braggart and empty windbag, he had taken but one good care,
and that was of his own skin. Unlike other less fortunate Royalists of
France, he neither fought in the country nor braved dangers in town. He
played a safer game--crossed the frontier and constituted himself agent
of Austria; he succeeded in gaining the Emperor’s money for the good of
the Royalist cause, and for his own most especial benefit.
Even a less astute man of the world than was Armand St. Just would
easily have guessed that de Batz’ desire to be the only instrument in
the rescue of the poor little Dauphin from the Temple was not actuated
by patriotism, but solely by greed. Obviously there was a rich reward
waiting for him in Vienna the day that he brought Louis XVII safely into
Austrian territory; that reward he would miss if a meddlesome Englishman
interfered in this affair. Whether in this wrangle he risked the life of
the child-King or not mattered to him not at all. It was de Batz who was
to get the reward, and whose welfare and prosperity mattered more than
the most precious life in Europe.