“That is the way we conduct our affairs, citizen,” said Heron gruffly,
as he once more led his guest back into his office.
It was his turn to be complacent now. De Batz, for once in his life
cowed by what he had seen, still wore a look of horror and disgust upon
his florid face.
“What devils you all are!” he said at last.
“We are good patriots,” retorted Heron, “and the tyrant’s spawn leads
but the life that hundreds of thousands of children led whilst his
father oppressed the people. Nay! what am I saying? He leads a far
better, far happier life. He gets plenty to eat and plenty of warm
clothes. Thousands of innocent children, who have not the crimes of
a despot father upon their conscience, have to starve whilst he grows
fat.”
The leer in his face was so evil that once more de Batz felt that
eerie feeling of terror creeping into his bones. Here were cruelty and
bloodthirsty ferocity personified to their utmost extent. At thought of
the Bourbons, or of all those whom he considered had been in the past
the oppressors of the people, Heron was nothing but a wild and ravenous
beast, hungering for revenge, longing to bury his talons and his fangs
into the body of those whose heels had once pressed on his own neck.
And de Batz knew that even with millions or countless money at his
command he could not purchase from this carnivorous brute the life and
liberty of the son of King Louis. No amount of bribery would accomplish
that; it would have to be ingenuity pitted against animal force, the
wiliness of the fox against the power of the wolf.
Even now Heron was darting savagely suspicious looks upon him.
“I shall get rid of the Simons,” he said; “there’s something in that
woman’s face which I don’t trust. They shall go within the next few
hours, or as soon as I can lay my hands upon a better patriot than that
mealy-mouthed cobbler. And it will be better not to have a woman about
the place. Let me see--to-day is Thursday, or else Friday morning.
By Sunday I’ll get those Simons out of the place. Methought I saw you
ogling that woman,” he added, bringing his bony fist crashing down on
the table so that papers, pen, and inkhorn rattled loudly; “and if I
thought that you--”
De Batz thought it well at this point to finger once more nonchalantly
the bundle of crisp paper in the pocket of his coat.
“Only on that one condition,” reiterated Heron in a hoarse voice; “if
you try to get at Capet, I’ll drag you to the Tribunal with my own
hands.”
“Always presuming that you can get me, my friend,” murmured de Batz, who
was gradually regaining his accustomed composure.
Already his active mind was busily at work. One or two things which
he had noted in connection with his visit to the Dauphin’s prison had
struck him as possibly useful in his schemes. But he was disappointed
that Heron was getting rid of the Simons. The woman might have been
very useful and more easily got at than a man. The avarice of the French
bourgeoise would have proved a promising factor. But this, of course,
would now be out of the question. At the same time it was not because
Heron raved and stormed and uttered cries like a hyena that he, de
Batz, meant to give up an enterprise which, if successful, would place
millions into his own pocket.
As for that meddling Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel, and his
crack-brained followers, they must be effectually swept out of the way
first of all. De Batz felt that they were the real, the most likely
hindrance to his schemes. He himself would have to go very cautiously
to work, since apparently Heron would not allow him to purchase immunity
for himself in that one matter, and whilst he was laying his plans with
necessary deliberation so as to ensure his own safety, that accursed
Scarlet Pimpernel would mayhap snatch the golden prize from the Temple
prison right under his very nose.
When he thought of that the Gascon Royalist felt just as vindictive as
did the chief agent of the Committee of General Security.
While these thoughts were coursing through de Batz’ head, Heron had been
indulging in a volley of vituperation.
“If that little vermin escapes,” he said, “my life will not be worth
an hour’s purchase. In twenty-four hours I am a dead man, thrown to the
guillotine like those dogs of aristocrats! You say I am a night-bird,
citizen. I tell you that I do not sleep night or day thinking of that
brat and the means to keep him safely under my hand. I have never
trusted those Simons--”
“Not trusted them!” exclaimed de Batz; “surely you could not find
anywhere more inhuman monsters!”
“Inhuman monsters?” snarled Heron. “Bah! they don’t do their business
thoroughly; we want the tyrant’s spawn to become a true Republican and
a patriot--aye! to make of him such a one that even if you and your
cursed confederates got him by some hellish chance, he would be no use
to you as a king, a tyrant to set above the people, to set up in
your Versailles, your Louvre, to eat off golden plates and wear satin
clothes. You have seen the brat! By the time he is a man he should
forget how to eat save with his fingers, and get roaring drunk every
night. That’s what we want!--to make him so that he shall be no use to
you, even if you did get him away; but you shall not! You shall not, not
if I have to strangle him with my own hands.”
He picked up his short-stemmed pipe and pulled savagely at it for
awhile. De Batz was meditating.
“My friend,” he said after a little while, “you are agitating yourself
quite unnecessarily, and gravely jeopardising your prospects of getting
a comfortable little income through keeping your fingers off my person.
Who said I wanted to meddle with the child?”
“You had best not,” growled Heron.
“Exactly. You have said that before. But do you not think that you
would be far wiser, instead of directing your undivided attention to my
unworthy self, to turn your thoughts a little to one whom, believe me,
you have far greater cause to fear?”
“Who is that?”
“The Englishman.”
“You mean the man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel?”
“Himself. Have you not suffered from his activity, friend Heron? I fancy
that citizen Chauvelin and citizen Collot would have quite a tale to
tell about him.”
“They ought both to have been guillotined for that blunder last autumn
at Boulogne.”
“Take care that the same accusation be not laid at your door this year,
my friend,” commented de Batz placidly.
“Bah!”
“The Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris even now.”
“The devil he is!”
“And on what errand, think you?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then de Batz continued with slow and
dramatic emphasis:
“That of rescuing your most precious prisoner from the Temple.”
“How do you know?” Heron queried savagely.
“I guessed.”
“How?”
“I saw a man in the Theatre National to-day...”
“Well?”
“Who is a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“D---- him! Where can I find him?”
“Will you sign a receipt for the three thousand five hundred livres,
which I am pining to hand over to you, my friend, and I will tell you?”
“Where’s the money?”
“In my pocket.”
Without further words Heron dragged the inkhorn and a sheet of paper
towards him, took up a pen, and wrote a few words rapidly in a loose,
scrawly hand. He strewed sand over the writing, then handed it across
the table to de Batz.
“Will that do?” he asked briefly.
The other was reading the note through carefully.
“I see you only grant me a fortnight,” he remarked casually.
“For that amount of money it is sufficient. If you want an extension you
must pay more.”
“So be it,” assented de Batz coolly, as he folded the paper across.
“On the whole a fortnight’s immunity in France these days is quite a
pleasant respite. And I prefer to keep in touch with you, friend Heron.
I’ll call on you again this day fortnight.”
He took out a letter-case from his pocket. Out of this he drew a packet
of bank-notes, which he laid on the table in front of Heron, then he
placed the receipt carefully into the letter-case, and this back into
his pocket.
Heron in the meanwhile was counting over the banknotes. The light
of ferocity had entirely gone from his eyes; momentarily the whole
expression of the face was one of satisfied greed.
“Well!” he said at last when he had assured himself that the number
of notes was quite correct, and he had transferred the bundle of crisp
papers into an inner pocket of his coat--“well, what about your friend?”
“I knew him years ago,” rejoined de Batz coolly; “he is a kinsman of
citizen St. Just. I know that he is one of the confederates of the
Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Where does he lodge?”
“That is for you to find out. I saw him at the theatre, and afterwards
in the green-room; he was making himself agreeable to the citizeness
Lange. I heard him ask for leave to call on her to-morrow at four
o’clock. You know where she lodges, of course!”
He watched Heron while the latter scribbled a few words on a scrap of
paper, then he quietly rose to go. He took up his cloak and once again
wrapped it round his shoulders. There was nothing more to be said, and
he was anxious to go.
The leave-taking between the two men was neither cordial nor more than
barely courteous. De Batz nodded to Heron, who escorted him to the
outside door of his lodging, and there called loudly to a soldier who
was doing sentinel at the further end of the corridor.
“Show this citizen the way to the guichet,” he said curtly. “Good-night,
citizen,” he added finally, nodding to de Batz.
Ten minutes later the Gascon once more found himself in the Rue du
Temple between the great outer walls of the prison and the silent
little church and convent of St. Elizabeth. He looked up to where in the
central tower a small grated window lighted from within showed the
place where the last of the Bourbons was being taught to desecrate the
traditions of his race, at the bidding of a mender of shoes--a naval
officer cashiered for misconduct and fraud.
Such is human nature in its self-satisfied complacency that de Batz,
calmly ignoring the vile part which he himself had played in the last
quarter of an hour of his interview with the Committee’s agent, found
it in him to think of Heron with loathing, and even of the cobbler Simon
with disgust.
Then with a self-righteous sense of duty performed, and an indifferent
shrug of the shoulders, he dismissed Heron from his mind.
“That meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel will find his hands over-full
to-morrow, and mayhap will not interfere in my affairs for some time to
come,” he mused; “meseems that that will be the first time that a member
of his precious League has come within the clutches of such unpleasant
people as the sleuth-hounds of my friend Heron!”