Chauvelin! The presence of this man here at this moment made the events
of the past few days seem more absolutely like a dream. Chauvelin!--the
most deadly enemy he, Armand, and his sister Marguerite had in the
world. Chauvelin!--the evil genius that presided over the Secret Service
of the Republic. Chauvelin--the aristocrat turned revolutionary, the
diplomat turned spy, the baffled enemy of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
He stood there vaguely outlined in the gloom by the feeble rays of
an oil lamp fixed into the wall just above. The moisture on his sable
clothes glistened in the flickering light like a thin veil of crystal;
it clung to the rim of his hat, to the folds of his cloak; the ruffles
at his throat and wrist hung limp and soiled.
He had released Armand’s arm, and held his hands now underneath his
cloak; his pale, deep-set eyes rested gravely on the younger man’s face.
“I had an idea, somehow,” continued Chauvelin calmly, “that you and I
would meet during your sojourn in Paris. I heard from my friend Heron
that you had been in the city; he, unfortunately, lost your track almost
as soon as he had found it, and I, too, had begun to fear that our
mutual and ever enigmatical friend, the Scarlet Pimpernel, had spirited
you away, which would have been a great disappointment to me.”
Now he once more took hold of Armand by the elbow, but quite gently,
more like a comrade who is glad to have met another, and is preparing
to enjoy a pleasant conversation for a while. He led the way back to the
gate, the sentinel saluting at sight of the tricolour scarf which was
visible underneath his cloak. Under the stone rampart Chauvelin paused.
It was quiet and private here. The group of soldiers stood at the
further end of the archway, but they were out of hearing, and their
forms were only vaguely discernible in the surrounding darkness.
Armand had followed his enemy mechanically like one bewitched and
irresponsible for his actions. When Chauvelin paused he too stood still,
not because of the grip on his arm, but because of that curious numbing
of his will.
Vague, confused thoughts were floating through his brain, the most
dominant one among them being that Fate had effectually ordained
everything for the best. Here was Chauvelin, a man who hated him, who,
of course, would wish to see him dead. Well, surely it must be an easier
matter now to barter his own life for that of Jeanne; she had only been
arrested on suspicion of harbouring him, who was a known traitor to the
Republic; then, with his capture and speedy death, her supposed guilt
would, he hoped, be forgiven. These people could have no ill-will
against her, and actors and actresses were always leniently dealt with
when possible. Then surely, surely, he could serve Jeanne best by his
own arrest and condemnation, than by working to rescue her from prison.
In the meanwhile Chauvelin shook the damp from off his cloak, talking
all the time in his own peculiar, gently ironical manner.
“Lady Blakeney?” he was saying--“I hope that she is well!”
“I thank you, sir,” murmured Armand mechanically.
“And my dear friend, Sir Percy Blakeney? I had hoped to meet him in
Paris. Ah! but no doubt he has been busy very busy; but I live in
hopes--I live in hopes. See how kindly Chance has treated me,” he
continued in the same bland and mocking tones. “I was taking a stroll
in these parts, scarce hoping to meet a friend, when, passing the
postern-gate of this charming hostelry, whom should I see but my amiable
friend St. Just striving to gain admission. But, la! here am I talking
of myself, and I am not re-assured as to your state of health. You felt
faint just now, did you not? The air about this building is very dank
and close. I hope you feel better now. Command me, pray, if I can be of
service to you in any way.”
Whilst Chauvelin talked he had drawn Armand after him into the lodge
of the concierge. The young man now made a great effort to pull himself
vigorously together and to steady his nerves.
He had his wish. He was inside the Temple prison now, not far from
Jeanne, and though his enemy was older and less vigorous than himself,
and the door of the concierge’s lodge stood wide open, he knew that he
was in-deed as effectually a prisoner already as if the door of one of
the numerous cells in this gigantic building had been bolted and barred
upon him.
This knowledge helped him to recover his complete presence of mind. No
thought of fighting or trying to escape his fate entered his head for a
moment. It had been useless probably, and undoubtedly it was better so.
If he only could see Jeanne, and assure himself that she would be safe
in consequence of his own arrest, then, indeed, life could hold no
greater happiness for him.
Above all now he wanted to be cool and calculating, to curb the
excitement which the Latin blood in him called forth at every mention of
the loved one’s name. He tried to think of Percy, of his calmness, his
easy banter with an enemy; he resolved to act as Percy would act under
these circumstances.
Firstly, he steadied his voice, and drew his well-knit, slim figure
upright. He called to mind all his friends in England, with their rigid
manners, their impassiveness in the face of trying situations. There was
Lord Tony, for instance, always ready with some boyish joke, with boyish
impertinence always hovering on his tongue. Armand tried to emulate Lord
Tony’s manner, and to borrow something of Percy’s calm impudence.
“Citizen Chauvelin,” he said, as soon as he felt quite sure of the
steadiness of his voice and the calmness of his manner, “I wonder if
you are quite certain that that light grip which you have on my arm
is sufficient to keep me here walking quietly by your side instead
of knocking you down, as I certainly feel inclined to do, for I am a
younger, more vigorous man than you.”
“H’m!” said Chauvelin, who made pretence to ponder over this difficult
problem; “like you, citizen St. Just, I wonder--”
“It could easily be done, you know.”
“Fairly easily,” rejoined the other; “but there is the guard; it is
numerous and strong in this building, and--”
“The gloom would help me; it is dark in the corridors, and a desperate
man takes risks, remember--”
“Quite so! And you, citizen St. Just, are a desperate man just now.”
“My sister Marguerite is not here, citizen Chauvelin. You cannot barter
my life for that of your enemy.”
“No! no! no!” rejoined Chauvelin blandly; “not for that of my enemy, I
know, but--”
Armand caught at his words like a drowning man at a reed.
“For hers!” he exclaimed.
“For hers?” queried the other with obvious puzzlement.
“Mademoiselle Lange,” continued Armand with all the egoistic ardour
of the lover who believes that the attention of the entire world is
concentrated upon his beloved.
“Mademoiselle Lange! You will set her free now that I am in your power.”
Chauvelin smiled, his usual suave, enigmatical smile.
“Ah, yes!” he said. “Mademoiselle Lange. I had forgotten.”
“Forgotten, man?--forgotten that those murderous dogs have arrested
her?--the best, the purest, this vile, degraded country has ever
produced. She sheltered me one day just for an hour. I am a traitor to
the Republic--I own it. I’ll make full confession; but she knew nothing
of this. I deceived her; she is quite innocent, you understand? I’ll
make full confession, but you must set her free.”
He had gradually worked himself up again to a state of feverish
excitement. Through the darkness which hung about in this small room he
tried to peer in Chauvelin’s impassive face.
“Easy, easy, my young friend,” said the other placidly; “you seem to
imagine that I have something to do with the arrest of the lady in whom
you take so deep an interest. You forget that now I am but a discredited
servant of the Republic whom I failed to serve in her need. My life is
only granted me out of pity for my efforts, which were genuine if not
successful. I have no power to set any one free.”
“Nor to arrest me now, in that case!” retorted Armand.
Chauvelin paused a moment before he replied with a deprecating smile:
“Only to denounce you, perhaps. I am still an agent of the Committee of
General Security.”
“Then all is for the best!” exclaimed St. Just eagerly. “You shall
denounce me to the Committee. They will be glad of my arrest, I assure
you. I have been a marked man for some time. I had intended to evade
arrest and to work for the rescue of Mademoiselle Lange; but I will
give up all thought of that--I will deliver myself into your hands
absolutely; nay, more, I will give you my most solemn word of honour
that not only will I make no attempt at escape, but that I will not
allow any one to help me to do so. I will be a passive and willing
prisoner if you, on the other hand, will effect Mademoiselle Lange’s
release.”
“H’m!” mused Chauvelin again, “it sounds feasible.”
“It does! it does!” rejoined Armand, whose excitement was at
fever-pitch. “My arrest, my condemnation, my death, will be of vast deal
more importance to you than that of a young and innocent girl against
whom unlikely charges would have to be tricked up, and whose acquittal
mayhap public feeling might demand. As for me, I shall be an easy prey;
my known counter-revolutionary principles, my sister’s marriage with a
foreigner--”
“Your connection with the Scarlet Pimpernel,” suggested Chauvelin
blandly.
“Quite so. I should not defend myself--”
“And your enigmatical friend would not attempt your rescue. C’est
entendu,” said Chauvelin with his wonted blandness. “Then, my dear,
enthusiastic young friend, shall we adjourn to the office of my
colleague, citizen Heron, who is chief agent of the Committee of General
Security, and will receive your--did you say confession?--and note the
conditions under which you place yourself absolutely in the hands of the
Public Prosecutor and subsequently of the executioner. Is that it?”
Armand was too full of schemes, too full of thoughts of Jeanne to note
the tone of quiet irony with which Chauvelin had been speaking all
along. With the unreasoning egoism of youth he was quite convinced that
his own arrest, his own affairs were as important to this entire nation
in revolution as they were to himself. At moments like these it is
difficult to envisage a desperate situation clearly, and to a young man
in love the fate of the beloved never seems desperate whilst he himself
is alive and ready for every sacrifice for her sake. “My life for hers”
is the sublime if often foolish battle-cry that has so often resulted in
whole-sale destruction. Armand at this moment, when he fondly believed
that he was making a bargain with the most astute, most unscrupulous
spy this revolutionary Government had in its pay--Armand just then had
absolutely forgotten his chief, his friends, the league of mercy and
help to which he belonged.
Enthusiasm and the spirit of self-sacrifice were carrying him away. He
watched his enemy with glowing eyes as one who looks on the arbiter of
his fate.
Chauvelin, without another word, beckoned to him to follow. He led the
way out of the lodge, then, turning sharply to his left, he reached the
wide quadrangle with the covered passage running right round it, the
same which de Batz had traversed two evenings ago when he went to visit
Heron.
Armand, with a light heart and springy step, followed him as if he were
going to a feast where he would meet Jeanne, where he would kneel at
her feet, kiss her hands, and lead her triumphantly to freedom and to
happiness.